 44. A Jewish Child by Shalom Ash. The mother came out of the bride's chamber and cast a piercing look at her husband, who was sitting beside a finished meal and was making pellets of breadcrumbs previous to St. Grace. 45. You go talk to her, I haven't a bit of strength left. 46. So, Rockalaya has brought up children, has she, and can't manage them. Why, people will be pointing at you and laughing, a ruin to your years. 47. To my years, a ruin to yours. My children, are they? Are they not yours too? Couldn't you stay at home sometimes to care for them and help me to bring them up instead of traipsing around? The black ear knows where and with whom. 48. Rockalaya, what has possessed you to start such a quarrel with me now? The bridegroom's family will be arriving directly. 49. And what do you expect me to do, Moishala? For God's sake, go into her. We should be made a laughing stock. 50. The man rose from the table and went into the next room to his daughter. The mother followed. 51. On the sofa that stood by the window sat a girl about eighteen, her face hidden in her hands, her arms covered by her loose, thick, black hair. She was evidently crying, for her bosom rose and fell like a stormy sea. 52. On the bed opposite lay the white silk wedding dress, the chuppa-clide, with the black silk shawl-clide, and the black stuff-morning dress, which the tailor who had undertaken the outfit had brought not so long ago. By the door stood a woman with a black scarf round her head, and holding boxes with wigs. 53. Khanala, you are never going to do me this dishonour to make me the talk of the town? exclaimed the father. The bride was silent. 54. Look at me, daughter of Moishe Grice. It's all very well for Grenendoll Fruinder's daughter to wear a wig, but not for the daughter of Moishe Grice. Is that it? And yet Grenendoll Fruindall might very well think more of herself than you, she's more educated than you are, and has a larger dowry, put in the mother. 55. The bride made no reply. 56. Daughter, think how much blood and treasure it has cost to help us to a bit of pleasure, and now you want to spoil it for us? Remember, for God's sake, what you are doing with yourself. We shall be excommunicated. The young man will run away home on foot. Don't be foolish, said the mother, took a wig out of a box from the woman by the door, and approached her daughter. Let us try on the chitle. The hair is just the colour of yours. And she laid the strange hair on the girl's head. The girl felt the weight, put up her fingers to her head, met among her own soft cool living locks, the strange dead hair of the wig, stiff and cold, and it flashed through her. Who knows where the head to which this hair belonged is now. A shuddering enveloped her, and as though she had come into contact with something unclean, she snatched off the wig, threw it onto the floor and hastily left the room. Father and mother stood and looked at each other in utter dismay. The day after the wedding ceremony, the bridegroom's mother rose early and bearing large scissors and the wig and a hood which she had brought from her home as a present for the bride. She went to dress the latter for the breakfast. But the groom's mother remained outside the room because the bride had locked herself in and would open her door to no one. The groom's mother ran calling aloud for help to her husband, who together with a dozen uncles and brothers-in-law were still sleeping soundly after the evening's festivity. She then sought out the bridegroom, an eighteen-year-old boy with his mother's milk still on his lips, who, in a silk caftan and fur cap, was moving about the room in a bewildered fashion, his eyes on the ground, ashamed to look anyone in the face. In the end she fell back on the mother of the bride, and these two went into her together, having forced open the door between them. Why did you lock yourself in, dear daughter? There is no need to be ashamed. Marriage is a Jewish institution, said the groom's mother, and kissed her future daughter-in-law on both cheeks. The girl made no reply. Your mother-in-law has brought you a shaitral and a hood for the procession to the shawl, said her own mother. The band had already struck up the good morning in the next room. Come now, Kala she, Kala lay-burn, the guests are beginning to assemble. The groom's mother took hold of the plates in order to loosen them. The bride bent her head away from her, and fell on her own mother's neck. I can't, Mama Laban. My heart won't let me, Mama Crone. She held her hair with both hands to protect it from the other's scissors. For God's sake, my daughter, my life! begged the mother. In the other world you will be plunged for this into rivers of fire. The upper state who wears her own hair after marriage will have her own locks torn out with red-hot pincers, said the other with the scissors. A cold shiver went through the girl at these words. Mother life! Mother crown! she pleaded. Her hands sought her hair, and the black silky tresses fell through them in waves. Her hair, her hair, the hair which had grown with her growth and lived with her life, was to be cut off, and she was never, never to have it again. She was to wear strange hair, hair that had grown on another person's head, and no one knows whether that other person was alive or lying in the earth this long time. And whether she might not come any night to one's bedside, and whine in a dead voice. Give me back my hair. Give me back my hair. A frost seized the girl to the marrow. She shivered and shook. Then she heard the squeak of scissors over her head, tore herself out of her mother's arms, made one snatch at the scissors, flung them across the room and said, in a scarcely human voice, my own hair, my God, himself punish me. That day the bridegroom's mother took herself off home again, together with the sweet cakes and the geese which she had brought for the wedding breakfast for her own guests. She wanted to take the bridegroom as well, but the bride's mother said, I will not give him back to you, he belongs to me already. The following sabbath they led the bride in procession to the shawl, wearing her own hair in the face of all the town covered only by a large hood. But may all the names she was called by the way find their only echo in some uninhabited wilderness. A summer evening, a few weeks after the wedding, the young man had just returned from the stubble and went to his room. The wife was already asleep, and the soft light of the lamp fell on her pale face, showing here and there among the wealth of silky black hair that bathed it. Her slender arms were flung round her head, as though she feared that someone might come by night to shear them off while she slept. He had come home excited and irritable. This was the fourth week of his married life, and they had not yet called him to the Kyrgyz Hothorah, the reading of the law. The Chassidim pursued him, and today Chaim Moshe had blamed him in the presence of the whole congregation, and has shamed him because she, his wife, went about in her own hair. You all know better than a clay image, Reb Chaim Moshe had told him. What do you mean by a woman saying she won't? It is written, and he shall rule over thee. And he had come home intending to go to her and say, woman, it is a precept in the Torah. If you persist in wearing your own hair, I may divorce you without returning the dowry, after which he would pack up his things and go home. But when he saw his little wife asleep in bed, and her pale face peeping out of the glory of her hair, he felt a great pity for her. He went up to the bed and stood a long while looking at her, after which he called softly. She opened her eyes with a frightened start, and looked round in sleepy wonder. Nussin, did you call? What do you want? Nothing, your cap slipped off, he said, lifting up the white night cap which had fallen from her head. She flung it on again, and wanted to turn toward the wall. Khanala, I want to talk to you. The words went to her heart. The whole time since their marriage he had, so to say, not spoken to her. During the day she saw nothing of him, for he spent it in the best hamediresh or in the stubble. When he came home to dinner he sat down to table in silence. When he wanted anything he asked for it speaking into the air, and when really obliged to exchange a word with her he did so with his eyes fixed on the ground, too shy to look her in the face. And now he said he wanted to talk to her and in such a gentle voice, and they, too, alone together in their room. What do you want to say to me? she asked softly. Khanala, he began, please don't make a fool of me, and don't make a fool of yourself in people's eyes. Has not God decreed that we should belong together? You are my wife and I am your husband, and is it proper, and what does it look like, a married woman wearing her own hair? Sleep still half dimmed her eyes, and had altogether clouded her thought and will. She felt helpless, and her head fell lightly towards his breast. Child, he went on still more gently. I know you are not so depraved as they say. I know that you are a pious Jewish daughter, and his blessed name will help us, and we shall have pious Jewish children. Put away this nonsense. Why should the whole world be talking about you? Are we not man and wife? Is not your shame mine? It seemed to her as though someone, at once very far away and very near, had come and was talking to her. Nobody had ever yet spoken to her so gently and confidingly, and he was her husband, with whom she would live so long, so long, and there would be children, and she would look after the house. She lent her head lightly against him. I know you are very sorry to lose your hair, the ornament of your girlhood. I saw you with it when I was a guest in your home. I know that God gave you grace and loveliness. I know. It cuts me to the heart that your hair must be shorn off. But what is to be done? It is a rule, a law of our religion, and after all, we are Jews. We might even, God forbid, have a child conceived to us in sin. May heaven watch over and defend us. She said nothing, but remained resting lightly in his arm, and his face lay in the stream of her silky black hair with its cool odour. In that hair dwelt a soul, and he was conscious of it. He looked at her long and earnestly, and in his look was a prayer, a pleading with her for her own happiness, for her happiness and his. Shall I? he asked, more with his eyes than with his lips. He went quickly to the drawer and took out a pair of scissors. She laid her head in his lap, and gave her hair as a ransom for their happiness, still half asleep and dreaming. The scissors squeaked over her head, shearing off one lock after the other, and Hanela lay and dreamt through the night. On waking next morning she threw a look into the glass which hung opposite the bed. A shock went through her, and she thought she had gone mad and was in the asylum On the table beside her lay her shorn hair, dead. She hid her face in her hands, and the little room was filled with the sound of weeping. End of A Jewish Child by Sholom Ash Section 45 of Yiddish Tales This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Yiddish Tales translated by Helena Frank and read by Adrian Pretzels. Section 45 A Scholar's Mother by Sholom Ash The market lies four square, surrounded on every side by low whitewashed little houses. From the chimney of the one storied house opposite the well, and inhabited by the baker, issues thick smoke, which spreads low over the marketplace. Beneath the smoke is a flying to and fro of white pigeons, and a tall boy standing outside the baker's door is whistling to them. Equally opposite the well are stalls, doors laid across two chairs, and covered with fruit and vegetables. And around them, women with headkerchiefs gathered round their weary, sun-burnt faces in the hottest weather, stand and quarrel over each other's wares. It's certainly worth my while to stand quarrelling with you, a tramp like you, keeping a stall. Yenta, a woman about forty, whose wide lips have just uttered the above, wears a large, dirty apron, and her broad red face, with the composed glance of the eyes under the kerchief, gives support to her words. Do you suppose you have got the Almighty by the beard? He's mine as well as yours, answers Tauber, pulling her kerchief lower about her ears, and angrily stroking down her hair. A new customer approached Yenta's stall, and Tauber, standing by idle, passed the time in vituperations. What do I want with the money of a fine lady like you? You'll die like the rest of us, and not a dog will say caddish for you. She shrieked and came to a sudden stop, for Tauber had intended to bring up the subject of her own son, Yitzochel, when she remembered that it is against all manners to praise one's own. Yenta, measuring out a quarter of peas to her customer, made answer, Well, if you were a little superior to what you are, your husband wouldn't have died, and your child wouldn't have to be ashamed of you, as we all know he is. Whereupon Tauber flew into a rage, and shouted, Hussy, the idea of my son being ashamed of me, may you be a sacrifice for his littlest fingernail, for you're not worthy to mention his name. She was about to burst out weeping at the accusation of having been the cause of her husband's death, and of causing her son to be ashamed of her. But she kept back her tears with all her might, in order not to give pleasure to Yenta. The sun was dropping lower behind the other end of the little town. Jews were hurrying across the market-place to Mincha, in the Bessamadresh street, and the Haiderboys, just let out, began to gather round the well. Tauber collected her few little baskets in her arms, the doors and the chairs she left in the market-place, nobody would steal them, and with two or three parting curses to the rude Yenta, she quietly quitted the scene. Walking home with her armful of baskets, she thought of her son, Yitzochel. Yenta's stinging remarks pursued her. It was not Yenta's saying that she had caused her husband's death that she minded. Everyone knew how hard she had worked during his illness. It was her saying that Yitzochel was ashamed of her that she felt in her ribs. It occurred to her that when he came home for the night, he would never touch anything in her house. And thinking this over, she started once more abusing Yenta. Let her not live to see such a thing, Reboina shell-oilum, the one father. It seemed to her that this fancy of hers, that Yitzochel was ashamed of her, was all Yenta's fault. It was all her doing, the witch. My child, my Yitzochel, what business is he of yours? And the cry escaped her. Reboina shell-oilum, take up my quarrel. Thou art a father to the orphaned. Thou should not forgive her this. Who is that? Whom are you scolding so, Talba? Called out Necha, the rich man's wife, standing in the door of her shop, and overhearing Talba as she scolded to herself on the walk home. Who should it be, housemistress? Who but the hussy, the abortion, the witch? answered Talba, pointing with one finger toward the marketplace, and without so much as lifting her head to look at the person speaking to her, she went on her way. She remembered as she walked how that morning when she went into Necha's kitchen with a fowl, she heard her Yitzochel's voice in the other room, disputing with Necha's boys over the Talmud. She knew that on Wednesday's Yitzochel ate his day at Necha's table, and she had taken the fowl there that day on purpose, so that her Yitzochel would have a good plate of soup, for her poor child was but weakly. When she heard her son's voice she had been about to leave the kitchen, and yet she had stayed. Her Yitzochel disputing with Necha's children? What did they know as compared with him? Did they come up to his level? He will be ashamed of me, she thought with a start, when he finds me with a chicken in my hand. So his mother is a market woman, they will say, there's a fine study partner for you. But she had not left the kitchen. A child who had never cost a farthing, and she would like to know how much Necha's children cost their parents. If she had all the money that Yitzochel ought to have cast, the money that ought to have been spent on him, she would be a rich woman too. And she stood and listened to his voice. Oh, he should have lived to see Yitzochel. It would have made him well. Soon the door opened. Necha's boys appeared, and her Yitzochel with them. His cheeks flamed. Good morning, he said, feebly, and was out at the door in no time. She knew that she had caused him vexation, that he was ashamed of her before his companions. And she asked herself, her child, her Yitzochel, who had suckled her milk, what had Necha to do with him? And she had poured out her bitterness of heart upon Yenta's head for this also, that her son had cost her parents nothing, and was yet a better scholar than Necha's children. Once more, she exclaimed, Rebina, shall I avenge my quarrel, pay her out for it, let her not live to see another day. Passes by, seeing a woman walking and scolding aloud, laughed. Night came on. The little town was darkened. Taoba reached home with her arm full of baskets, dragged herself up the steps, and opened the door. Mame, it's Mame, came voices from within. The house was full of smoke. The children clustered round her in the middle of the room and never ceased calling out Mame. One child's voice was tearful. Where have you been all day? Another's more tearful. How nice it is to have you back! And all the voices mingled together into one. Be quiet! You don't give me time to draw my breath! cried the mother, lying down the baskets. She went to the fireplace, looked out for something, and presently the house was illuminated by a smoky lamp. The feeble shimmer lighted only the part round the hearth, where Taoba was kindling two pieces of stick. An old dusty sewing machine beside a bed, sign of a departed tailor, and a single bed opposite the lamp, strewn with straw, on which lay various fruits, the odor of which filled the room. The rest of the apartment, with the remaining beds, lay in shadow. It is a year and a half since her husband, laser the tailor, died. While he was alive, but when his cough had increased, and he could no longer provide for his family, Taoba had started earning something on her own account. And the worse the cough, the harder she had to toil, so that by the time she became a widow, she was already used to supporting her whole family. The eldest boy, Yitzochel, had been the one consolation of laser the tailor's cheerless existence, and laser was comforted on his deathbed to think that he should leave a good caddish behind him. When he died, the householders had pity on the desolate widow, collected a few roubles so that she might buy something to traffic with, and seeing that Yitzochel was a promising boy, they placed him in the Bessamedres, arranged for him to have his daily meals in the houses of the rich, and bared him past his time over the Talmud. Taoba, when she saw her Yitzochel taking his meals with the rich, felt satisfied. A weekly boy, what could she give him to eat? There, at the rich man's table, he had the best of everything, but it grieved her that he should eat in strange rich houses. She herself did not know whether she had received a kindness or the reverse when he was taken off her hands. One day, sitting at her stall, she spied her Yitzochel, emerging from the shul with his tefillin bag under his arm, and go straight into the house of Reb Zintl, the rich, to breakfast, and a pang went through her heart. She was still on terms then with the enter, because immediately after the death of her husband, everyone had been kind to her, and she said, Believe me, Yenta, I don't know myself what it is. What right have I to complain of the householders? They have been very good to me and to my child, made provision for him in rich houses, treated him as if he were no ordinary market woman's son, but the child of gentle folk. And every day when I give the other children their dinner, I forget, and I lay a plate for my Yitzchochel, and when I remember that he has his meals at other people's hands, I begin to cry. Go along with you for a foolish woman, answered Yenta. How would he turn out if he was left to you? What is a poor person to give a child to eat when you come to think of it? You are right, Yenta, Taoba replied. But when I portion out the dinner for the others, it cuts me to the heart. And now as she sat by the hearth cooking the children's supper, the same feeling came over her, that they had stolen her Yitzchochel away. When the children had eaten and gone to bed, she stood the lamp on the table and began mending a shirt for Yitzchochel. Presently the door opened, and he, Yitzchochel, came in. Yitzchochel was about fourteen, tall and thin, his pale face telling out sharply against his black cloak beneath his black cap. Good evening, he said in a low tone. The mother gave up her place to him, feeling that she owed him respect without knowing exactly why, and it was born in upon her that she and her poverty together were a misfortune for Yitzchochel. He took a book out of the case, sat down and opened it. The mother gave the lamp a screw, wiped the globe with her apron, and pushed the lamp nearer to him. Will you have a glass of tea, Yitzchochel? she asked softly, wishful to serve him. No, I've just had some. Or an apple! he was silent. The mother cleaned a plate, laid two apples on it and a knife, and placed it on the table beside him. He peeled one of the apples as elegantly as a grown-up man, repeated the brocher aloud, and ate. When Talba had seen Yitzchochel eat an apple, she felt more like his mother, and drew a little nearer to him, and Yitzchochel, as he slowly peeled the second apple, began to talk more amiably. Today I talked with the Dian, the rabbi, about going somewhere else. In the Beshamedrash here there is nothing to do, nobody to study with, nobody to ask how and where, and in which book. And he advises me to go to the Yeshiva at Makov. He will give me a letter to Brebchaim, the Roche, and ask him to befriend me. When Talba heard that her son was about to leave her, she experienced a great shock. But the words Dian, Roche Yeshiva, Mecharevsane, and the other high-sounding bits of Hebrew, which she did not understand, over-awed her, and she felt she must control herself. Besides, the words held some comfort for her. Yitzchochel was holding council with her, with her, his mother. Of course, if the Dian thinks so, she answered piously. Yes, Yitzchochel continued. There one can hear lectures with all the commentaries. Brebchaim, the author of the book Vaoha Torah, Light of the Torah, is a well-known scholar, and there one has a chance of getting to be something decent. His words entirely reassured her. She felt a certain happiness and exultation, because he was her child, because she was the mother of such a child, such a son, and because, were it not for her, Yitzchochel would not be there at all. At the same time, her heart pained her, and she grew sad. Presently she remembered her husband, and burst out crying, If only he had lived, if only he could have had this consolation, she sobbed. Yitzchochel minded his book. That night, Tauber could not sleep, for at the thought of Yitzchochel's departure, her heart ached within her, and she dreamt, as she lay in bed, that some great rabbis with tall fur caps and long payas came in, and took her Yitzchochel away from her. Her Yitzchochel was wearing a strimmel and payas like theirs, and he held a large book, and he went far away with the rabbis, and she stood and gazed after him, not knowing should she rejoice or weep. Next morning she woke late. Yitzchochel had already gone to his studies. She hastened to dress the children and hurried to the marketplace. At her stall she fell the thinking, and fancied she was sitting beside her son, who was a rabbi in a large town. There he sits, in shoes and socks, a great fur strimmel on his head, and looks into a huge book. She sits at his right hand, knitting a sock. The door opens, and there appears Yenta, carrying a dish, to ask a ritual question of Talba's son. A customer disturbed her sweet dream. After this Talba sat up whole nights at the table, by the light of the smoky lamp, rearranging and mending Yitzchochel's shirts for the journey. She recalled with every stitch that she was sewing for Yitzchochel, who was going to the Yeshiva, to sit and study, and who, every Friday, would put on a shirt prepared for him by his mother. Yitzchochel sat, as always, on the other side of the table, gazing into a book. His mother would have liked to speak to him, but she did not know what to say. Talba and Yitzchochel were up before daylight. Yitzchochel kissed his little brothers in their sleep, and said to his little sleeping sisters, Remain in health. One sister woke and began to cry, saying she wanted to go with him. The mother embraced and quieted her softly. Then she and Yitzchochel left the room, carrying his box between them. The street was still fast asleep. The shops were still closed. Behind the church belfry the morning star shone coldly forth onto the cold morning dew on the roofs, and there was silence over all, except in the marketplace, where there stood a peasant's cart, laden with fruit. It was surrounded by women, and Yinta's voice was heard from afar. Five gilden, and ten groschen, and I'll take the lot. And Talba, carrying Yitzchochel's box behind him, walked thus through the marketplace, and catching sight of Yinta, she looked at her with pride. They came out behind the town onto the high road, and waited for an opportunity to come by on its way to Lentschitz, whence Yitzchochel was to proceed to Kutno. The sky was grey and cold, and mingled in the distance with the dingy mist rising from the fields, and the road, silent and deserted, ran away out of sight. They sat down beside the barrier, and waited for the opportunity. The mother scraped together a few twenty-copek pieces out of her pocket, and put them into his bosom, twisted up in his shirt. Presently a cart came by, crowded with passengers. She secured a seat for Yitzchochel, for forty groschen, and hoisted the box onto the cart. Gagazint, don't forget your mother! she cried in tears. Yitzchochel was silent. She wanted to kiss her child, but she knew it was not the thing for a grown-up boy to be kissed, so she refrained. Yitzchochel mounted the cart. The passengers made room for him among them. Remain in health, mother! he called out as the cart set off. Gagazint, my child, sit and study, and don't forget your mother! she cried after him. The cart moved further and further, till it was climbing the hill in the distance. Tauber still stood and followed it with her gaze, and not till it was lost to view in the dust did she turn and walk back to the town. She took a road that should lead her past the cemetery. There was a rather low plank fence round it, and the gravestones were all to be seen, looking up to heaven. Tauber went and hitched herself onto the fence, and put her head over into the field, looking for something among the tombs. And when her eyes had discovered a familiar little tombstone, she shook her head. Laser, laser, your son has driven away to the yeshiva, to study Torah. Then she remembered the market, where yenta must by now have bought up the whole cartload of fruit. There would be nothing left for her, and she hurried into the town. She walked at a great pace, and felt very pleased with herself. She was conscious of having done a great thing, and this dissipated her annoyance at the thought of yenta acquiring all the fruit. Two weeks later she got a letter from Yitzchachel, and, not being able to read it herself, she took it to Reb Yachanan, the teacher, that he might read it for her. Reb Yachanan put on his glasses, cleared his throat thoroughly, and began to read, Le'imi ahuvosi hazeno. What is the translation? asked Tauber. It is the way to address a mother, explained Reb Yachanan, and continued. Tauber's face had brightened, and she put her apron to her eyes, and wept for joy. The reader observed this, and read on. What is the translation? The translation, Reb Yachanan, the woman kept asking. Never mind, it's not for you, you wouldn't understand. It's an exposition of a passage in the Gomorrah. She was silent. The Hebrew words awed her, and she listened respectfully to the end. I salute Emi ahuvosi and Achoisei, Sarah and Golda and Oichiyakov. Tell him to study diligently. I have all my days, and I sleep at Reb Chaim's. Gave out Reb Yachanan suddenly in Yiddish. Tauber, contented herself with these few words, took back the letter, put it into her pocket, and went back to her stall with great joy. This evening she thought, I will show it to the Diane, and let him read it too, and no sooner had she got home, cooked the dinner and fed the children, than she was off with the letter to the Diane. She entered the room, saw the tall bookcases filled with books covering the walls, and a man with a white beard sitting at the end of the table reading. What is it? A ritual question? Asked the Diane from his place. No. What then? A letter from my Yiddish uncle. The Diane rose, came up and looked at her, took the letter, and began to read it silently to himself. Well done. Excellent. Good. The little fellow knows what he is saying, said the Diane more to himself than to her. Tears streamed from Tauber's eyes. If only he had lived, if only he had lived. Shechitas chutz, brambam, tose fos is right, went on the Diane. Herr Yitzchakl, Tauber the market woman's son, she thought proudly. Take the letter, said the Diane at last. I've read it all the way through. Well, and what? asked the woman. What? What do you want, then? What does it say? she asked in a low voice. There's nothing in it for you. You wouldn't understand. Replied the Diane with a smile. Yitzchakl continued to write home. The Yiddish words were fewer every time, often only a greeting to his mother, and she came to Reb Yohanan, and he read her the Yiddish phrases with which she had to be satisfied. The Hebrew words are for the Diane, she said to herself. But one day there is nothing in the letter for you, said Reb Yohanan. What do you mean? Nothing, he said shortly. Read me at least what there is. But it is all Hebrew, Torah. You wouldn't understand. Very well, then. I won't understand. Go in health and don't drive me distracted. Talba left him, and resolved to go that evening to the Diane. Reb Yih excuse me, translate this into Yiddish, she said, handing him the letter. The Diane took the letter and read it. Nothing there for you, he said. Reb Yih, said Talba, shyly, excuse me, translate the Hebrew for me. But it is Torah, an exposition of a passage in the Torah. You won't understand. Well, if you would only read the letter in Hebrew, but allowed, so that I may hear what he says. You won't understand one word. It's Hebrew. Persisted the Diane with a smile. Well, I won't understand. That's all, said the woman. But it's my child's Torah, my child's. The Diane reflected a while. Then he began to read aloud. Presently, however, he glanced at Talba and remembered that he was expounding the Torah to a woman, and he felt thankful no one had heard him. Take the letter. There is nothing in it for you, he said, compassionately, and sat down again in his place. But it is my child's Torah, my Yiddish letter. Why may I hear it? What does it matter if I don't understand? It is my own child. The Diane turned coldly away. When Talba reached home after this interview, she sat down at the table, took down the lamp from the wall, and looked silently at the letter by its smoky light. She kissed the letter, but then it occurred to her that she was defiling it with her lips. She, a sinful woman. She rose, took her husband's prayer-brook from the bookshelf, and lay the letter between its leaves. Then, with trembling lips, she kissed the covers of the book, and placed it once more in the bookcase. End of A Scholar's Mother by Sholam Ash. Section 46 of Yiddish Tales This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Yiddish Tales translated by Helena Frank and read by Adrian Pretzelis. Section 46 The Sinner by Sholam Ash So that you should not suspect me of taking his part, I will write a short preface to my story. It is written, A man never so much as moves his finger, but it has been so decreed from above. And whatever a man does, he fulfills God's will. Even animals and birds, the Havdil, carry out God's wishes. Whenever a bird flies, it fulfills a precept, because God, blessed is he, formed it to fly, and an ox the same when it lows, and even a dog when it barks, all praise God with their voices, and sing hymns to him each after his manner. And even the wicked who transgresses fulfills God's will in spite of himself. Because why? Do you suppose he takes pleasure in transgressing? Isn't he certain to repent? Well then, he is just carrying out the will of heaven. And even the Yetzerah, the evil inclination himself, why, every time he is sent to persuade a Jew to sin, he weeps and sighs, Woe is me, that I should be sent on such an errand. After this little preface, I will tell you the story itself. Formerly, before the thing happened, he was called Reb Avraham. But afterwards they ceased calling him by his name, and simply said, The Sinner. Reb Avraham was looked up to and respected by the whole town, a God-fearing Jew, beloved and honoured by all, and mothers wished they might have children like him. He sat the whole day in the Beshamed Resh and learned. Not that he was a great scholar, but he was a pious, scrupulously observant Jew who followed the straight and beaten road. A man without any pride, he used to recite the prayers in shul together with strangers by the door, and, quite quietly, without any shouting, or, as one would say, any special enthusiasm. His prayer rose to heaven, the barred gates opening before it till it entered, and was taken up into the throne of glory. This prayer of his did not become a diamond there, dazzling the eye, but a softly glistening pearl. And how, you ask, did he come to be called The Sinner? On this wise. You must know that everyone, even those who were hardest on him after the affair, acknowledged that he was a great lover of Israel, and I will add that his sin and a heaven-defenders, his coming to such a fall, all proceeded from his being such a lover of Israel, such a patriot. And it was just the simple Jew, the very common folk, that he loved. He used to say, a Jew who is a driver, for instance, and busy all week with his horses and cart, and soaked in materialism for six days at a stretch, so that he only just manages to get to his prayers, when he comes home on Sabbath, and sits down to table, and the bed is made, and the candle's burning, and his wife and children all round him, and they sing hymns together. Well, the driver dozing off over his siddha, and forgetting to say grace. I tell you, said Reb Alvraham, the Divine Presence rests on his house and rejoices, and says, Happy am I that I chose me out of this people. For such a Jew keeps Sabbath, rests himself, and his horse rests, keeps Sabbath likewise, stands in the stable, and is also conscious, that it is the Holy Sabbath. And when the driver rises from his sleep, he leads the animal out to pasture, waters it, and they all go for a walk with it in the meadow. And this walk of theirs is more acceptable to God, blessed be he, than repeating, but keen if she is a deny, blessed the Lord, oh my soul. It may be this was because he himself was of humble origin. He had lived till he was thirteen with his father, a farmer, in an out-of-the-way village, and ignorant even of his letters. True, his father had taken a youth into the house to teach him Hebrew, but Reb Alvraham, as a boy, was very wild, wouldn't mind his book, and ran all day after the oxen and horses. He used to lie out in the meadow, hidden in the long grasses, near him the horses with their heads down pulling at the grass, and the view stretched far, far away, in the meadow, in the meadow, down pulling at the grass, and the view stretched far, far away, into the endless distance, and above him spread the wide sky, through which the clouds made their way, and the green, juicy earth seemed to look up at it, and say, Look, sky, and see how cheerfully I try to obey God's behest to make the world green with grass, and the sky made answer, see earth how I try to fulfill God's command by spreading myself far and wide, and the few trees scattered over the fields were like witnesses to their friendly agreement, and little Alvraham lay and rejoiced in the goodness, and all the work of God. Suddenly, as though he had received a revelation from heaven, he went home, and asked the youth who was his teacher, What blessing should one recite on feeling happy at the sight of the world? The youth laughed, and said, You stupid boy, one says a blessing over bread and water, but as to saying one over this world, whomever heard of such a thing. Alvraham wondered, The world is beautiful, the sky so pretty, the earth so sweet and soft, everything is so delightful to look at, and one says no brahah over it all. At thirteen he had left the village and come to the town. There, in the study-house, he saw the Rosh Hayashiva sitting at one end of the table, and around it the scholars, all reciting in fervent, appealing tones that went to his heart. The boy began to cry, whereupon the Rosh Hayashiva turned, and saw a little boy with a torn hat crying, and his hair coming out through the holes, and his boots slung over his shoulder, like a peasant lad, fresh from the road. The scholars laughed, but the Rosh asked him what he wanted. To learn, he answered in a low pleading voice. The Rosh Hayashiva had compassion on him, and took him as a pupil. Alvraham applied himself earnestly to the Torah, and in a few days could read Hebrew and follow the prayers without help, and the way he prayed was a treat to watch. You should have seen him. He just stood and talked, as one person talks to another, quietly and affectionately, without any tricks of manner. Once the Rosh saw him praying, and said before his whole academy, I can learn better than he, but when it comes to praying, I don't reach to his ankles. And that is what he said. So Reb Avraham lived there till he was grown up, and married the daughter of a simple tailor. Indeed, he learned tailoring himself, and lived by his ten fingers. By day he sat and sewed with an open prayer book before him, and recited portions of the Psalms to himself. After dark he went to the study-house, so quietly that no one noticed him, and passed half the night over the Talmud. Once some strangers came to town, and spent the night in the study-house behind the stove. Suddenly they heard a thin, sweet voice that was like a tune in itself. They started up, and saw him at his book. The small lamp hanging by a cord poured a dim light upon him where he sat, while the walls remained in shadow. He studied with ardour, with enthusiasm, only his enthusiasm was not for beholders. It was all within. He swayed slowly to and fro, and his shadow swayed with him, and he softly chanted the Gomorrah. By degrees his voice rose, his face kindled, and his eyes began to glow. One could see that his very soul was resolving itself into his chanting. The divine presence hovered over him, and he drank in its sweetness. And in the middle of his reading he got up and walked about the room, repeating in a trembling whisper, Reboina shall oil him, Lord of the world! Then his voice grew as suddenly calm, and he stood still as though he dozed off where he stood for pure delight. The lamp grew dim, and still he stood and stood and never moved. Or fell on the travellers behind the stove, and they cried out. He started and approached them, and they had to close their eyes against the brightness of his face, the light that shone out of his eyes. And he stood there quite quietly and simply, and asked in a gentle voice why they had called out. Were they cold? And he took off his cloak and spread it over them. Next morning the travellers told all this, and declared that no sooner had the cloak touched them than they had fallen asleep, and they had seen and heard nothing more that night. After this, when the whole town had got wind of it, and they found out who it was that night in the House of Study, the people began to believe that he was the Tzaddik, and they came to him with petitions, as Hasidim to their ebbs, asking him to pray for their health and other wants. And when they brought him such a petition, he would smile and say, believe me, a little boy who says a brocher over a piece of bread which his mother has given him, he can help you more than twenty such as I. Of course, his words made no impression, except that they brought him more petitions than ever, upon which he said, You insist on a man of flesh and blood such as I, being your advocate with God, Akadosh Baruch Hu, hear a parable. To what shall we liken the thing? To the light of the sun and the light of a small lamp. You can rejoice in the sunlight as much as you please, and no one can take your joy from you. The poorest and most humble may revive himself with it, so long as his eyes can behold it. And even though a man should sit which, God forbid, in a dungeon with closed windows, a reflection will make its way in through the chinks, and he shall rejoice in the brightness. But with the poor light of a lamp it is otherwise. A rich man buys a quantity of lamps and illuminates his house, while a poor man sits in darkness. God Baruch Hu is the great light that shines for the whole world, reviving and refreshing all his works. The whole world is full of his mercy, and his compassion is over all his creatures. Believe me, you have no need of an advocate with him? God is your father, and you are his dear children. How should a child need an advocate with his father? The ordinary folk heard and were silent. But our people, the Hasidim, were displeased, and I'll tell you another thing. I was the first to mention it to the Rebbe, long life to him, and he, as is well known, commanded Reb Avraham to his presence. So we set to work to persuade Reb Avraham and talk to him till he had to go with us. The journey lasted four days. I remember one night the moon was wandering in a blue ocean of sky that spread ever so far till it mingled with a cloud, and she looked at us pitifully and appealingly, as though to ask us if we knew which way she ought to go, to the right or to the left, and presently the cloud came upon her, and she began struggling to get out of it. And a minute or two later she was free again and smiling at us. Then a little breeze came and stroked our faces, and we looked round to the four sides of the world, and it seemed as if the whole world were wrapped in a talus woven of mercy, and we fell into a slight melancholy, a quiet sadness, but so sweet and pleasant. It felt like on a Sabbath a twilight at the third meal. Suddenly Reb Avraham exclaimed, Jews, have you said the blessings on the appearance of the new moon? We turned toward the moon, laid down our bundles, washed our hands in the little stream that ran by the roadside, and repeated the brockers for the new moon. He stood looking into the sky, his lips scarcely moving, as was his won't. Shalom alechem, he said, turning to me, and his voice quivered like a violin, and his eyes called to peace and unity. Then an oar of Reb Avraham came over me for the first time, and when we had finished sanctifying the moon, our melancholy left us, and we prepared to continue our way. But still he stood and gazed heavenward, sighing, Reboina shell o'er them. Lord of the universe, how beautiful is the world which thou hast made by thy goodness and great mercy, and these are over all thy creatures. They all love thee, and are glad in thee, and thou art glad in them, and the whole world is full of thy glory. I glanced up at the moon, and it seemed that she was still looking at me and saying, I'm lost, which way am I to go? We arrived Friday afternoon, and had time enough to go to the mikvah and to greet the Rebbe. He, long life to him, was seated in the reception room beside a table, his long lashes low over his eyes, leaning on his left hand while he greeted newcomers with his right. We went up to him one at a time, shook hands, and said Sholam alechem, and he, long life to him, said nothing to us. Reb Avraham also went up to him, and held out his hand. A change came over the Rebbe. He raised his eyelids with his fingers, and looked at Reb Avraham for some time in silence. And Reb Avraham looked at the Rebbe, and was silent too. The chasidim were offended by such impertinence. That evening we assembled in the Rebbe's study-house to usher in the Sabbath. It was tightly packed with Jews, one pushing the other, or seizing hold of his girdle, only beside the ark was there a free space left, a semicircle in the middle of which stood the Rebbe, who prayed. But Reb Avraham stood by the door among the poor guests, and prayed after his fashion. To Kiddush, called the shamus. The Rebbe's wife, daughters, and daughters-in-law now appeared, and their jewellery, their precious stones, and their pearls sparkled and shone. The Rebbe stood, and repeated the Kiddush. He was slightly bent, and his gray beard swept his breast. His eyes were screened by his lashes, and he recited the Kiddush in a loud voice, giving to every word a peculiar inflection, to every sign an expression of its own. Two table was called out next. At the head of the table sat the Rebbe, sons and sons-in-law, to the left, relations to the right of him, then the principal aged Jews, then the rich. The people stood round about. The Rebbe ate, and began to serve out the leavings, to his sons and sons-in-law first, and to the rest of those sitting at the table after. Then there was silence. The Rebbe began to expound the Torah. The portion of the week was permittbar. Chapter 8. And the Rebbe began. When a man's soul is on a low level, enveloped to heaven defenders in uncleanness, and the divine spark within the soul wishes to rise to a higher level and cannot do so alone, but must needs be helped, it is a mitzvah to help her, to raise her. And this mitzvah is especially incumbent on the priest. This is the meaning of, the seven lamps shall give light over against the candlestick, by which is meant the holy Torah. The priest must bring the Jews' heart near the Torah. In this way he is able to raise it. And who is the priest? The righteous in his generation? Because since the temple was destroyed, the saint must be a priest. For thus is the command from above, that he shall be the priest. Avraham, the Rebbe called suddenly. Avraham, come here, I am calling you. The other went up to him. Avraham, did you understand? Did you make out the meaning of what I said? Your silence, the Rebbe went on, is an acknowledgment. I must raise you, even though it be against my will and against your will. There was dead stillness in the room. People waiting to hear what would come next. You are silent, asked the Rebbe, now a little sternly. You want to be a razor of souls? Have you, bless and preserve us, bought the Almighty for yourself? Do you think that a Jew can approach nearer to God, blessed be he, through you? That you are the handle of the pestle and the rest of the Jews nowhere? God's grace is everywhere. Whichever way we turn, every time we move a limb, we feel God. Everyone must seek him in his own heart, because there it is that he has caused the Divine presence to rest. Everywhere and always can the Jew draw near to God. Thus answered Rebbe Avraham. But our people, the Rebbe's followers, shut his mouth before he had made an end, and had the Rebbe not held them back, they would have torn him to pieces on the spot. Leave him alone, he commanded the Hasidim. And to Rebbe Avraham he said, Avraham, you have sinned. And from that day forward he was called the sinner, and was shut out from everywhere. The Hasidim kept their eye on him, and persecuted him, and he was not even allowed to pray in the Bessamadres. And I'll tell you what I think. A wicked man, even when he acts according to his wickedness, fulfills God's command. And who knows? Perhaps they were both right. End of The Sinner, by Sholom Ash. 47 Isaac Dov Berkovitz. Born 1885 in Slutsk, government of Minsk, Lithuania, white Russia. Was in America for a short time in 1908. Contributor to Dizoukumpf. Co-editor of Ha'olim, Vilna, Hebrew and Yiddish writer. Collected works. Yiddish, Gasel Meltesriften, Warsaw, 1910, Hebrew, Siparim, Krakow, 1910. Country Folk, by Isaac Dov Berkovitz. Fyfka was a wild little villager, about seven years old, who had tumbled up from babyhood among Gentile urchins, the only Jewish boy in the place. Just as his father, Matiz, the Koslov Smith, was the only Jewish householder there. Fyfka had hardly ever met or even seen anyone, but the people of Koslov and their children. Had it not been for his black eyes, with their moody, persistent gaze from beneath the shade of a deep, worn-out leather cap, it would have puzzled anyone to make out his parentage, to know whence that torn and battered face, that red scar across the top lip, those large, black, flat, un-child-like feet. But the eyes explained everything. His mother's eyes. Fyfka spent the whole summer with the village urchins in the neighbouring wood, picking mushrooms, climbing the trees, driving wood pigeons off their high nests, or wading knee-deep in the shallow bog outside, to seek the black, slippery bog worms. Or else he found himself out in the fields, jumping about on the top of a load of hay under a hot sky, and shouting to his companions, till he was bathed in perspiration. At other times he gathered himself away into a dark, cool barn, scrambled at the peril of his life, along a round beam under the roof, crunched dried pairs, saw how the sun sprinkled the darkness with a thousand sparks, and thought. He could always think about Makita, the son of the village elder, who had almost risen to be a conductor on the railway train, and who came from a long way off to visit his father, brass buttons to his coat, and a purse full of silver rubles, and piped to the village girls of an evening on the most cunning kind of whistle. It often had happened that Fyfka could not be found, and did not even come home to bed. But his parents troubled precious little about him, seeing that he was growing up a wild, dissolute boy, and the pleasure of heaven rested on his head. Fyfka was not a timid child, but there were two things he was afraid of. God and dovening. Fyfka had never, to the best of his recollection, seen God, but he often heard his name. They threatened him with it, glanced up at the ceiling, and sighed, and this embittered somewhat his sweet, free days. He felt that the older he grew, the sooner he would have to present himself before this terrifying, stern and unfamiliar God, who was hidden somewhere, whether near or far, he could not tell. One day Fyfka all but ran a danger. It was early on a winter's morning. There was a cold, wild wind blowing outside, and indoors there was a black stranger dew in a thick sheepskin, breaking open the tin charity boxes. The smith's wife served the stranger with hot potatoes and sour milk, whereupon the stranger piously closed his eyes, and, having reopened them, caught sight of Fyfka through the white steam rising from the dish of potatoes, Fyfka huddled in a corner and beckoned him nearer. Have you begun to learn, little boy? he questioned, and took his cheek between two pale, cold fingers which sent a whiff of snuff up Fyfka's nose. His mother, standing by the stove, reddened, and made some inaudible answer. The black stranger threw up his eyes and slowly shook his head inside the wide sheepskin collar. This shaking too and frove his head boated no good, and Fyfka grew strangely cold inside. Then he grew hot all over, and for several nights after, thousands of long, cold, pale fingers pursued and pinched him in his dreams. They had never yet taught him to recite his prayers. Koslov was a lonely village, far from any Jewish settlement. Every sabbath morning Fyfka, snug in bed, watched his father put on a mended black cloak, wrap himself in the talus, shut his eyes, take on a bleating voice, and, turning to the wall, commenced a series of bowels. Fyfka felt that his father was bowing before God, and this frightened him. He thought it a very rash proceeding. Fyfka, in his father's place, would sooner have had nothing to do with God. He spent most of the time while his father was at his prayers, cowering under the covalet, and only crept out when he heard his mother busy with plates and spoons, and the pungent smell of chopped radishes and onions penetrated to the bedroom. Winters and summers passed, and Fyfka grew to be seven years old, just such a Fyfka as we have described, and the last summer passed and gave way to autumn. That autumn the smith's wife was brought to bed of a seventh child, and before she was about again the cold, damp days were upon them, with the misty mornings, when a fish shivers in the water, and the days of her confinement were mingled for the lovely village duess, with the solemn days of that year into a hard, dreary time. She went slowly about the house, as if in a fog, without help or hope, and silent as a shadow. That year they all led a dismal life. The elder children, girls, went out to service in the neighbouring towns to make their own way among strangers. The peasants had become sharper and worse than formerly, and the smith's strength was not what it had been. So his wife resolved to send the two men of the family, Matzis and Fyfka, to a minion, this yom kippa. Maybe if two went, God would not be able to resist them, and would soften his heart. One morning, therefore, Matzis the smith, washed, donned his mended sabbath cloak, went to the window, and blinked through it with his red and swollen eyes. It was the eve of the day of atonement. The room was well warmed, and there was a smell of freshly stewed carrots. The smith's wife went out to seek Fyfka through the village, and brought him home, dishevelled and distracted, and all of a glow. She had torn him away from an early morning of excitement and delight, such as could never, never be again. Mikita, the son of the village elder, had put his father's brown colt into harness for the first time. The whole contingent of village boys had been present to watch the fiery young animal twisting between the shafts, drawing loud breaths into its dilated and quivering nostrils, looking wildly at the surrounding boys, and stamping impatiently, as though it would have liked to plow away the earth from under its feet. And suddenly it had given a bound, and started careering through the village with the colt behind it. There was a glorious noise and commotion. Fyfka was foremost among those who, in a cloud of dust and at the peril of their life, had dashed to seize the colt by the rains. His mother washed him, looked him over from the low-set leather hat down to his great black feet, stuffed a packet of food into his hands, and said, Go and be a good and devout boy, and God will forgive you. She stood on the threshold of the house and looked after her two men, starting for a distant minion. The bearing of seven children had aged and weakened the once hard obstinate woman, and left standing alone in the doorway, watching her poor, barefoot, perverse natured boy on his way to present himself for the first time before God. She broke down by the Mazusa, and wept. Silently, step by step, Fyfka followed his father between the desolate stubble fields. It was a good ten miles walk to the large village where the minion assembled, and the fear and the wonder in Fyfka's heart increased all the way. He did not yet quite understand whether he was being taken, and what was to be done with him there, and the impetus of the brown colt's career through the village had not as yet subsided in his head. Why had Father put on his black-mended coat? Why had he brought a talus with him, and a white shirt-like garment? There was certainly some hour of calamity and terror ahead. Something was preparing which had never happened before. They went by the great Kozlov wood, where in every tree stood silent and sad, for its faded and fallen leaves. Fyfka dropped behind his father, and stepped aside into the wood. He wondered, should he run away and hide in the wood? He would willingly stay there for the rest of his life. He would foregather with Naster, the barrel-maker's son, he of the knocked-out eye. They would roast potatoes out in the wood, and now and again, stolen-wise, milk the village cows for their repast. Let them beat him as much as they pleased. Let them kill him on the spot. Nothing should induce him to leave the wood again. But no. As Fyfka walked along under the silent trees and through the fallen leaves, and perceived that the whole wood was filled through and through with a soft, clear light, and heard the rustle of the leaves beneath his step, a strange terror took hold of him. The wood had grown so sparse, the trees so discoloured, and he should have to remain in the stillness alone and roam about in the winter wind. Mutters, the smith, had stopped, wandering, and was blinking around with his sick eyes. Fyfka, where are you? Fyfka appeared out of the wood. Fyfka, today you must not go into the wood. Today, God may yet. Today you must be a good boy, said the smith, repeating his wife's words as they came to his mind, and you must say, O Main. Fyfka hung his head and looked at his great bare black feet. But if I don't know how, he said sullenly. It's no great thing to say, O Main, his father replied encouragingly. When you hear the other people say it, you can say it too. Everyone must say, O Main. Then God will forgive them, he added, recalling again his wife and her admonitions. Fyfka was silent, and once more followed his father step by step. What will they ask him, and what is he to answer? It seemed to him now that they were going right over a way yonder, where the pale, scarcely tinted sky touched the earth. There, on a hill, sits a great old god in a large sheepskin cloak. Everyone goes up to him, and he asks them questions, which they have to answer, and he shakes his head to and fro inside the sheepskin collar. And what is he, a wild, ignorant little boy, to answer this great old god? Fyfka committed a great many transgressions concerning which his mother was constantly admonishing him, but now he was thinking only of two great transgressions committed recently, of which his mother knew nothing, one with regard to Anishka the beggar. Anishka was known to the village as far back as it could remember as an old blind beggar who went the round of the villages, feeling his way with a long stick. And one day Fyfka and another lad played him a trick. They placed a ladder in his way, and Anishka stumbled and fell, hurting his nose. Some peasants came up and caught Fyfka. Anishka sat in the middle of the road with blood on his face, wept bitterly, and declared that God would not forget his blood that had been spilled. The peasants had given little Zidek a sound thrashing, but Fyfka felt now as if that would not count. God would certainly remember the spilling of Anishka's blood. Fyfka's second hidden transgression had been committed outside the village, among the graves of the peasants. A whole troop of boys, Fyfka in their midst, had gone pigeon-hunting, aiming at the pigeons with stones, and a stone of Fyfka's had hid the naked figure on the cross that stood there among the graves. The Gentile boys had started and taken fright, and those among them who were Fyfka's good friends told him he had actually hit the Son of God, and that the thing would have consequences. It was one for which people had their heads cut off. These two great transgressions now stood before him, and his heart warned him that the hour had come when he would be called to account for what he had done to Anishka and to God's Son. Only he did not know what answer he could make. By the time they came near the windmill, belonging to the large strange village, the Son had begun to set. The village river, with trees beside it, were visible a long way off, and, crossing the river, a long high bridge. The Minion is there, and Matus pointed his finger at the thatched roofs shining in the sunset. Fyfka looked down from the bridge into the deep black water that lay smooth and still in the shadow of the trees. The bridge was high, and the water deep. Fyfka felt sick at heart, and his mouth was dry. But Tati, I won't be able to answer, he let out in despair. What, not, O Main? Eh, eh, you little silly, that is no great matter. Where is the difficulty? One just ups and answers, said his father gently. But Fyfka heard that the while his father was trying to quieten him, his own voice trembled. At the other end of the bridge there appeared the great inn with the covered terrace, and in front of the building were moving groups of Jews in holiday garb, with red handkerchiefs in their hands, women in yellow silk headkerchiefs, and boys in new clothes holding small prayer books. Fyfka remained obstinately outside the crowd, and hung about the stable, his black eyes staring defiantly from beneath the worn out leather cap. But he was not left alone long, for soon they came to him a smart yellow-haired boy with restless little light-coloured eyes, and a face like a chicken's covered with freckles. This little boy took a little bottle with some essence in it out of his pocket, gave it a twist and a flourish in the air, and suddenly applied it to Fyfka's nose, so that the strong waters spurted into his nostril. Then he asked, to whom do you belong? Fyfka blew the water out of his nose and turned his head away in silence. Listen, turkey, lazy dog, what are you doing there? Have you said mincha? No. Is the Jew in a torn cloak there your father? Yes. Tarty. The yellow-haired boy took Fyfka by the sleeve. Come along, and you'll see what they do to your father. Inside the room into which Fyfka was dragged by his new friend, it was hot, and there was a curious, unfamiliar sound. Fyfka grew dizzy. He saw Jews bowing and bending along the wall, and beating their breasts. Now they said something, and now they wept in an odd way. People coughed and spat sobbingly, and blew their noses with their red handkerchiefs. Chairs and stiff benches creaked, while a continuous clatter of plates and spoons came through the wall. In a corner beside a heap of hay, Fyfka saw his father where he stood, looking all around him, blinking, shame-facedly, and innocently with his weak red eyes. Round him was a lively circle of little boys, whispering with one another in evident expectation. That is his boy with the lip, said the chicken-faced, presenting Fyfka. At the same moment a young man came up to Matzes. He wore a white collar without a tie, and with a pointed brass stud. This young man held a whip, which he brandished in the air like a rider about to mount his horse. Well, Reb Smith, am I, I suppose I am, to lie down, asked Matzes subserviently, still smiling round in the same shy yet confiding manner. Be so good as to lie down. The young man gave a mischievous look at the boys, and made a gesture in the air with the whip. Matzes began to unbutton his cloak, and slowly and cautiously let himself down onto the hay, whereupon the young man applied the whip with might and main, and his whole face shone. One, two, three, go on, Reb, go on! urged the boys, and there were shouts of laughter. Fyfka looked on in amaze. He wanted to go and take his father by the sleeve, making get up and escape. But just then Matzes raised himself to a sitting posture, and began to rub his eyes with the same shy smile. Now, Rebby, this one, said the yellow-haired boy, and the yellow-haired boy began to drag Fyfka toward the hay. The others assisted. Fyfka got very red, and silently tried to tear himself out of the boys' hands, making for the door, but the other kept his hold. In the doorway Fyfka glared at him with his obstinate black eyes, and said, I'll knock your teeth out. Mine, you, you, booby, you lazy thing, this is our house. Do you know, on New Year's Eve, I went with my grandfather to the town. I shall call Libroots, he'll give you something to remember him by. And Libroots was not long in joining them. He was the in-driver, a stout youth of fifteen in a peasant smock with a collar stitched in red, otherwise in full array, with linen socks and a handsome bottle of strong waters against faintness in his hands. To judge by the size of the bottle, his sturdy looks belied a particularly delicate constitution. He pushed towards Fyfka with one shoulder in no friendly fashion, and looked at him with one eye while he winked with the other at the freckled grandson of the host. Who is the beauty? How should I know, a thief most likely, the Coslov smith's boy, he threatened to knock out my teeth. So, so dear brother, mine, sang out Libroots with a cold sneer, and passed his five fingers across Fyfka's nose. We must rub a little horseradish under his eyes, and he'll weep like a beaver. Listen, you Coslov urchin, you just keep your hands in your pockets, because Libroots is here. Do you know Libroots? Lucky for you that I have a Jewish heart. Today is Yom Kippur, but the chicken-faced boy was not pacified. Did you ever see such a lip? Then he comes to our house and wants to fight us. The whole lot of boys now encircled Fyfka with teasing and laughter, and he stood barefooted in their midst, looking at none of them, and reminding one of a little wild animal caught and tormented. It grew dark, and quantities of sole lights were set burning down the long tables of the inn. The large building was packed with red-faced, perspiring Jews in long white robes and to listen. The vedui was already in course a fervent recital. There was a great rocking and swaying over the prayer-books, and a loud noise in the ears, everyone present trying to make himself heard above the rest. Village Jews are simple and ignorant. They know nothing of silent prayer and whispering with the lips. They are deprived of prayer in common a year at a time, and are distant from the Lord of all. And when the awful day comes, they want to take him by storm, by violence. The noisiest of all was the prayer leader himself, the young man with the white collar and no tie. He was from town, and wished to convince the country folk that he was an adept at his profession, and to be relied on. Fyfka stood in the stifling room, utterly confounded. The prayers and the waleful chanting passed over his head like waves. His heart was straightened, red sparks whirled before his eyes. He was in a state of continual apprehension. He saw a snow-white old Jew come out of a corner with a safer Torah wrapped in a white velvet gold-embroided cover. How the gold sparkled and twinkled, and reflected itself in the illuminated beard of the old man! Fyfka thought the moment had come, but he saw it all as through a mist, a long way off, to the sound of the waleful chanting, and, as in a mist, the scroll and the old man vanished together. Fyfka's face and body were flushed with heat, his knees shook, and at the same time his hands and feet were cold as ice. Once, while Fyfka was standing by the table facing the bright flames of the sole lights, a dizziness came over him and he closed his eyes. Thousands of little bells seemed to ring in his ears. Then someone gave a loud thump on the table, and there was silence all around. Fyfka started and opened his eyes. The sudden stillness frightened him, and he wanted to move away from the table, but he was walled in by men in white robes who had begun rocking and swaying anew. One of them pushed a prayer-book towards him with great black letters, which hopped and fluttered to Fyfka's eyes like so many little black birds. He shook visibly, and the man looked at him in silence. He remained for some time squeezed against the prayer-book, hemmed in by the tall strange men in robes, shoggling over his head. A cold perspiration broke out over him, and when at last he freed himself, he felt very tired and weak. Having found his way to a corner close to his father, he fell asleep on the floor. There he had a strange dream. He dreamt that he was a tree growing like any other tree in a wood, and that he saw Anishka coming out with blood on his face, in one hand his long stick, and in the other a stone, and Fyfka recognized the stone with which he had hit the crucifix, and Anishka kept turning his head, and making signs to someone with his long stick, calling out to him that here was Fyfka. Fyfka looked hard, and there in the depths of the wood was God himself, white all over, like freshly fallen snow. And God suddenly grew ever so tall, and looked down at Fyfka. Fyfka felt God looking at him, but he could not see God because there was a mist before his eyes, and Anishka came nearer and nearer with the stone in his hand. Fyfka shook, and cold perspiration oozed out all over him. He wanted to run away, but he seemed to be growing there like a tree, like all the other trees of the wood. Fyfka awoke on the floor amid sleeping men, and the first thing he saw was a tall, barefoot person, all in white, standing over the sleepers with something in his hand. This tall white figure sank slowly onto its knees, and bending silently over Matsus the Smith, who lay snoring with the rest, it deliberately put a bottle to his nose. Matsus gave a squeal and sat up hastily. Ha! who is it? he asked in alarm. It was the young man from town, the prayer-leader, the chasen with a bottle of strong smelling salts. It is I, he said with a dégagé air, and smiled. Never mind, it will do you good. You are fasting, and there is an express law in the Chayayodam on the subject. But why me? complained Matsus, blinking at him reproachfully. What have I done to you? Day was about to dawn. The air in the room had cooled down. The sole lights were still playing in the dark, dewy window-panes. A few of the men bedded in the hay on the floor were waking up. Fyfka stood in the middle of the room with staring eyes. The young man with the smelling bottle came up to him with a lively air. Oh, you little object! What are you staring at me for? Do you want a sniff? There, then, sniff. Fyfka retreated into a corner and continued to stare at him in bewilderment. No sooner was it day than the davening recommenced with all the fervour of the night before. The room was as noisy and very soon nearly as hot. But it had not the same effect on Fyfka as yesterday, and he was no longer frightened of Anishka and the stone. The whole dream had dissolved into thin air. When they once more brought out the Safer Torah in its white mantle, Fyfka was standing by the table and looked on indifferently when they uncovered the black, shining, crowded letters. He looked indifferently at the young man from town, swaying over the Safer Torah, out of which he read fluently, intoning with a strangely free and easy manner, like an adept, to whom all this was nothing new. Whenever he stopped reading he threw back his head and looked down at the people with a bright and satisfied smile. The little boys roamed up and down the room in socks with smelling salts in their hands, or yawned into that little sideream. The air was filled with the dust of the trampled hay. The sun looked in at a window, and the soul-lights grew dim as in a mist. It seemed to Fyfka that he had been at the minion a long, long time, and he felt as though some great misfortune had befallen him. Fear and wonder continued to oppress him, but not the fear and wonder of yesterday. He was tired, his body burning while his feet were contracted with cold. He got away outside, stretched himself out on the grass behind the inn, and dozed, facing the sun. He dozed there through a good part of the day. Bright red rivers flowed before his eyes, and they made his brains ache. Someone, he did not know who, stood over him and never stopped rocking to and fro and reciting prayers. Then it was his father bending over him with a rather troubled look, and waking him in a strangely gentle voice. Well, Fyfka, are you asleep? You've had nothing to eat today yet? No. Fyfka followed his father back into the house on his unsteady feet. Weary Jews with pale and lengthened noses were resting on the terrace and on the benches. The sun was already low down over the village, and shining full into the inn windows. Fyfka stood by one of the windows with his father, and his head swam from the bright light. Matze's stroked his beard continually, and there was more davening and more rocking while they recited the Shimonah Esrae. The benedictions ended. The young man began to trill, but in a weaker voice and without charm. He was sick of the whole thing, and kept it on in the half-hearted way with which one does a favour. Matze's forgot to look at his prayer-book, and, standing in the window, gazed at the treetops, which had caught fire in the rays of the setting sun. Nobody was expecting anything of him, when he suddenly gave a sob so loud and so piteous that all turned and looked at him in astonishment. Some of the people laughed. The barter filler had just intoned Michael on the right hand uttered praise out of the afternoon service. What was there to cry about in that? All the little boys had assembled round Matze's the smith, and were choking with laughter, and a certain youth, the host's new son-in-law, gave a twitch to Matze's talus. Reb Kozlova, you've made a mistake. Matze's answered not a word. The little fellow with the freckles pushed his way up to him, and, imitating the young man's intonation, repeated, Reb Kozlova, you've made a mistake. Fyfker looked wildly round at the bystanders at his father. Then he suddenly advanced the freckled boy and glared at him with his black eyes. You, you, Cobb T. B. B. C., he hissed in little Russian. The laughter and commotion increased. There was an exclamation, rascal in a holy place, and another, uh-huh, the Kozlova smith's boy must be a first-class scamp. The prayer-leader thumped angrily on his prayer-book, because no one was listening to him. Fyfker escaped once more behind the inn, but the whole company of boys followed him, headed by Leibruth's the driver. There he is, the Kozlova lazy booby, screamed the freckled boy. Have you ever heard the like? He actually wanted to fight again. And in our house, what do you think of that? Leibruth's went up to Fyfker at a steady trot, and with the gesture of one who likes to do what has to be done, calmly and coolly. Wait, boys, hands off! We've got a remedy for him here, for which I hope he will be thankful. So saying he deliberately took hold of Fyfker from behind by his two arms, I made a sign to the boy with the yellow hair. Now for it, Aronchka, give it to the youngster. The little boy immediately whipped the smelling bottle out of his pocket, took out the stopper with a flourish, and held it to Fyfker's nose. The next moment Fyfker had wrenched himself free, and was making for the chicken face with nails spread when he received two smart-sounding boxes on the ears, from two great, heavy, horny hands which so clouded his brain for a minute that he stood dazed and dumb. Suddenly he made a spring at Leibruth's, fell upon his hand, and fastened his sharp teeth in the flesh. Leibruth gave a loud yell. There was a great to-do. People came running out in their robes, women with pale, startled faces called to their children. A few of them reproved Matzes for his son's behaviour. Then they dispersed, till they remained behind the inn only Matzes and Fyfker. Matzes looked at his boy in silence. He was not a talkative man, and he found only two or three words to say. Fyfker, mother there at home, and you here? Again Fyfker found himself alone on the field, and again he stretched himself out and dozed. Again too the red streams flowed before his eyes, and someone unknown to him stood at his head and recited prayers. Only the streams were thicker and darker, and the dovening over his head was louder, sadder, more penetrating. It was quite dark when Matzes came out again, took Fyfker by the hand, set him on his feet and said, Now we are going home. In doors everything had come to an end, and the room had taken on a weekday look. The candles were gone, and a lamp was burning above the table, round which sat men in their hats and usual cloaks, no robes to be seen, and patook of some refreshment. There was no more dovening, but in Fyfker's ears was the same ringing of bells. It now seemed to him that he saw the room and the men for the first time, and the old Jew sitting at the head of the table, presiding over bottles and wine glasses, and clicking with his tongue could not possibly be the old man with the silver white beard who had held up the safer toe-rut to his breast. Matzes went up to the table, gave a cough, bowed to the company, and said, Shanatova. The old man raised his head and thundered so loudly that Fyfker's face switched with pain. Ha! I said I am just going home, going home, home again, so I wish you, I wish you, a Shanatova, a good year. Ha! A good year, a good year to you also. Wait, have a little brandy, ha! Fyfker shut his eyes. It made him feel bad to have the lamp burning so brightly, and the old man talking so loud. Why need he speaking such a high, rasping voice that went through one's head like a sore? Ha! Is it your little boy who scratched my Aronchka's face? Ha! Araskal, is he? Beat him well. There, give him a little brandy, too, and a bit of cake. He fasted, too, ha! But he can't recite the prayers. Fy, you ought to be beaten. Ha! Are you going home? Go in health. Ha! Your wife has just been confined. Perhaps you need some money for the holidays. Ha! What do you say? Mutzers and Fyfker started to walk home. Mutzers gave a look at the clear sky, where the young half-moon had floated into view. Mother will be expecting us, he said, and began to walk quickly. Fyfker could hardly drag his feet. On the tall bridge they were met by a cool breeze blowing from the water. Once across the bridge, Mutzers again quickened his pace. Presently he stopped to look around. No Fyfker. He turned back and saw Fyfker sitting in the middle of the road. The child was huddled up in a silent shivering heap. His teeth chattered with cold. Fyfker, what is the matter? Why are you sitting down? Come along. Home. I won't. Fyfker chatted out with his teeth. I can't. Did they hit you so hard, Fyfker? Fyfker was silent. Then he stretched himself out on the ground, his hands and feet quivering. Cold! Aren't you well, Fyfker? The child made an effort, sat up and looked fixedly at his father, with his black feverish eyes, and suddenly he asked, Why did you cry there, Tati? Why? Tell me why. Where did I cry, you little silly? Why? I just cried. It's John Kipper. Mother is fasting too. Get up, Fyfker, and come home. Mother will make you a paltice. Occurred to him as a happy thought. No. Why did you cry while they were laughing? Fyfker insisted, still sitting in the road and shaking like a leaf. One mustn't cry when they laugh. One mustn't. And he lay down again on the damp ground. Fyfker, come home, my son. Mother stood over the boy in despair and looked around for help. From some way off from the tall bridge came a sound of heavy footsteps growing louder and louder, and presently the moonlight showed the figure of a peasant. Hey, who's that, Mucka the Smith? What are you doing there? Are you casting spells? Who is that lying on the ground? I don't know myself what I'm doing, kind soul. That is my boy, and he won't come home, or he can't. What am I to do with him? complained Mutzers, to the peasant, whom he knew. Has he gone crazy? Give him a kick, you lazy little devil. Get up! Fyfker did not move from the spot. He only shivered silently, and his teeth shattered. Oh, you devil, what sort of a boy have you there, Mucka? A visitation of heaven. Why don't you beat him more? The other day they came and told tales of him. Agapa said that, I don't know either, kind soul, what sort of a boy he is, answered Mutzers, and wrung his hands in desperation. Early next morning, Mutzers hired a conveyance, and drove Fyfker to the town, to the asylum for the sick poor. The Smith's wife came out, and saw them start, and she stood a long while in the doorway by the Mazuzza. And on another fine, autumn morning, just when the villagers were beginning to cart loads of fresh earth to secure the village against overflowing streams, the village boys told one another the news of Fyfker's death. End of Country Folk by Isaac Dov Berkovitz.