 Section 29 of Yiddish Tales. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Yiddish Tales translated by Helena Frank and read by Adrian Pretzelis. Section 29. S. Libin, pen name of Israel Hurwitz, born 1872 in Gorygorky, Government of Moelev, Lithuania, White Russia. Assistant to a druggist at 13, went to London at 20 and, after 7 months there, to New York, 1893, worked as a capmaker. First sketch, a Sifz-Wanne-arbeiter-bus. Contributor to the Arbeiterzeitung, das Arbenbeit, die Zukunft für Wurz, etc. A terrific Yiddish playwright and writer of sketches on New York Jewish life. Dramas to the number of 26 produced on the stage. Collected works, Eklebn-Skizzen, one volume, New York, 1902, and two volumes, New York, 1907. A picnic by S. Libin. Shmuel, the capmaker, just for a joke if he would like to come for a picnic. He'll fly out at you as if you had invited him to swing on the gallows. The fact is, he and his Sarah once went for a picnic, and the poor man will remember it all his days. It was on a Sabbath towards the end of August. Shmuel came home from work and said to his wife, Sarah dear, well husband, was her reply, I want to have a treat, said Shmuel, as though alarmed at the boldness of the idea. What sort of treat? Shall you go to the swimming-bar tomorrow? Et, what's the fun of that? Then what will you have by way of an exception? A glass of ice-water for supper? Not that either. A whole siphon? Shmuel denied with a shake of the head. Whatever can it be? wondered Sarah. Are you going to fetch a pint of beer? What should I want with beer? Are you going to sleep on the roof? Wrong again. To buy some more carbollic acid and drive out the bugs? Not the bad idea, observed Shmuel, but that is not it either. Well then, whatever is it for goodness sake? The moon? asked Sarah, beginning to lose patience. What have you been and thought of? Tell me once and for all and have done with it. And Shmuel said, Sarah, you know we belong to a lodge. Of course I do, said Sarah, and gave him a look of mingled astonishment and alarm. It's not more than a week since you took a whole dollar there, and I'm not lucky to have forgotten what it cost you to make it up. What's the matter now? Do they want another? Try again. Out with it. I want us, Sarah, the Stammered Shmuel, to go for a picnic. A picnic? screamed Sarah. Is that the only thing you have left a wish for? Look here, Sarah, we toil and moil the whole year through. It's nothing but trouble and worry, trouble and worry. Call that living? When do we ever have a bit of pleasure? Well, what's to be done? said his wife in a subdued tone. The summer will soon be over, and we haven't set eyes on a green blade of grass. We sit day and night, sweating in the dark. True enough, sighed his wife, and Shmuel spoke louder. Let's have an outing, Sarah. Let us enjoy ourselves for once and give the children a breath of fresh air. Let's have a change, if it's only for five minutes. What will it cost? asked Sarah suddenly, and Shmuel soon has made the necessary calculation. A family ticket is only 30 cents for Yossela, Rivela, Hanela, and Berela. For Ressela and Oleska, I haven't to pay any car fare at all. For you and me it will be 10 cents there and 10 back. That makes 50 cents. Then I reckon 30 cents for refreshments to take with us. A pineapple, a damaged one isn't more than a year five cents. A few bananas. A piece of watermelon, a bottle of milk for the children, and a few rolls. The whole thing shouldn't cost us more than 80 cents at the outside. 80 cents! And Sarah clapped her hands together in dismay. Why, you can live on that two days, and it takes nearly a whole day's earning. You can buy an old ice-box for 80 cents. You can buy a pair of trousers, 80 cents! Leave off talking nonsense, said Shmuel, disconcerted. 80 cents won't make us rich. We shall get on just the same whether we have them or not. We must live like human beings one day in the year. Come, Sarah, let us go. We shall see lots of other people and we'll watch them and see how they enjoy themselves. It will do you good to see the world, to go where there's a bit of life. Listen, Sarah, what have you been to worth seeing since we came to America? Have you seen the Brooklyn Bridge or Central Park or the Baron Hirsch baths? You know I haven't, Sarah broke in. I've no time to go outside seeing. I only know the way from here to the market. And what do you suppose? Cried Shmuel, I should be as great a greenhorn as you if I haven't been obliged to look everywhere for work. Now, I know that America is a great big place. Thanks to the slack times, I know where there's an 8th Street and a 130th Street with the tinworks and an 84th Street with a match factory. I know every single lane round the world building. I know where the cable car line stops. But you, Sarah, know nothing at all. No more than if you had just landed. Let us go, Sarah. I'm sure you won't regret it. Well, you know best, said his wife. And this time she smiled. Let us go. And thus it was that Shmuel and his wife decided to join the Lodge picnic on the following day. Next morning they all rose much earlier than usual on a Sunday and there was a great noise, for they took the children and scrubbed them without mercy. Sarah prepared a bath for Dilecka, and Dilecka screamed the house down. Shmuel started washing Yossila's feet, but as Yossila habitually went barefoot he failed to bring about any visible improvement and had to leave the little pair of feet to soak in a basin of warm water. And Yossila cried too. It was twelve o'clock before the children were dressed and ready to start and then Sarah turned her attention to her husband. Arranging his trousers, took the spots out of his coat with kerosene, sewed a button onto his vest. After that she dressed herself in her old-fashioned satin wedding dress. At two o'clock they set forth and took their places in the car. Haven't we forgotten anything? asked Sarah of her husband. Shmuel counted his children and the traps. No, nothing Sarah, he said. Dilecka went to sleep and the other children sat quietly in their places. Sarah too fell into a dose, for she was tired out with the preparations for the excursion. All went smoothly till they got some way uptown when Sarah gave a start. I don't feel very well, my head is so dizzy, she said to Shmuel. I don't feel very well either, answered Shmuel. I suppose the fresh air has upset us. I suppose it has, said his wife. I'm afraid for the children. Scarcely had she spoken when Dilecka woke up, whimpering and was sick. Yossela, who was looking at her, began to cry likewise. The mother scolded him and this set the other children crying. The conductor cast a wrathful glance at poor Shmuel, who was so frightened that he dropped the handbag with the provisions, and then, conscious of the havoc he had certainly brought about inside the bag by so doing, he lost his head altogether and sat there in a daze. Sarah was hushing the children, but the look in her eyes told Shmuel plainly enough what to expect once they had left the car, and no sooner had they all reached the ground in safety than Sarah shot out. So nothing would content him but a picnic, much good may it do him. You're a workman, and workmen have no call to go gadding about. Shmuel was already weary of the whole thing and said nothing, but he felt a tightening of the heart. He took up Yossela on one arm and Wressela on the other, and carried the bag with the presumably smashed up contents besides. Hush, my dears! Hush, my babies! he said. Wait a little, and mother will give you some bread and sugar. Hush! Be quiet! he went on, but still the children cried. Sarah carried Dolezka and rocked her as she walked, while Berela and Hanela trotted alongside. He has shortened my days, said Sarah, may his be shortened likewise. Soon afterwards they turned into the park. Let's find a tree and sit down in the shade, said Shmuel. Come, Sarah. I haven't the strength to drag myself a step further, declared Sarah, and she sank down like a stone just inside the gate. Shmuel was about to speak, but a glance at Sarah's face told him she was worn out, and he sat down beside his wife without a word. Sarah gave Dolezka the breast. The other children began to roll about in the grass, laughed and played, and Shmuel breathed easier. Girls in holiday attire walked about the park, and there were groups under the trees. Here was a handsome girl surrounded by admiring boys, and there a handsome young man encircled by a bevy of girls. Out of the leafy distance of the park came the melancholy song of a workman. Nearby stood a man playing on a fiddle. Sarah looked about her and listened, and by degree her vexation vanished. It is true that her heart was still sore, but it was not with the soreness of anger. She was taking her life to pieces and thinking it over, and it seemed a very hard and bitter one, and when she looked at her husband and thought of his life, she was near crying, and she laid her hands upon his knee. Shmuel also sat lost in thought. He was thinking about the trees and the roses and the grass, and listening to the fiddle, and he also was sad at heart. Oh, Sarah, he sighed, and he would have said more, but just at that moment it began to spot with rain, and before they had time to move, there came a downpour. People started to scurry in all directions, but Shmuel stood like a statue. Schlemazel, look after the children, commanded Sarah. Shmuel caught up two of them, Sarah another two or three, and they ran to a shelter. Daletka began to cry afresh. Mama, hungry, began Beryla. Hungry, hungry, wailed Yossala. I want to eat. Shmuel hastily opened the handbag, and then for the first time he saw what had really happened. The bottle had broken, and the milk was flooding the bag. The rolls and bananas were soaked, and the pineapple, a damaged one to begin with, looked too nasty for words. Sarah caught sight of the bag and was so angry she was at a loss at a reek vengeance on her husband. She was ashamed to scream and scold in the presence of other people, but she went up to him and whispered fervently into his ear, The same to you, my good man. The children continued to clamour for food. I'll go to the refreshment counter and buy a glass of milk and a few rolls, said Shmuel to his wife. Have you actually some money left? asked Sarah. I thought it had all been spent on the picnic. There are just five cents over. Well, then go, and be quick about it. The poor things are starving. Shmuel went to the refreshment stall and asked the price of a glass of milk and a few rolls. Twenty cents, Mr. answered the waiter. Shmuel started as if he had burnt his finger and returned to his wife more crestfallen than ever. Well, Shlamazel, where's the milk? inquired Sarah. He asked, twenty cents. Twenty cents for a glass of milk and a roll. Are you Montefiore? Sarah could no longer contain herself. There'll be the ruin of us. If you want to go for another picnic, we shall have to sell the bedding. The children never stopped begging for something to eat. But what are we to do? asked the bewildered Shmuel. Do! screamed Sarah, go home this very minute. Shmuel promptly caught up a few children and they left the park. Sarah was quite quiet on the way home, merely remarking to her husband that she would settle her account with him later. I'll pay you out, she said, for my satin dress, for the handbag, for the pineapple, for the bananas, for the milk, for the whole blessed picnic, for the whole of my miserable existence. Scald away, answered Shmuel. It is you who are right. I don't know what possessed me. A picnic indeed. We may well ask what next? A poor wretched workman like me has no business to think of anything beyond the shop. Sarah, when they reached home, was as good as her word. Shmuel would have liked some supper, as he always liked it, even in slack times. But there was no supper given to him. He went to bed, a hungry man, and all through the night he repeated in his sleep a picnic, a picnic, end of A Picnic by S. Libin. Section 30 of Yiddish Tales. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Yiddish Tales translated by Helen Frank and read by Adrian Pretzelis. Section 30. Manasala by S. Libin. It was a stifling summer evening. I had just come home from work, taken off my coat unbuttoned by waistcoat, and sat down panting by the window of my little room. There was a knock at the door, and without waiting for my reply, in came a woman with yellow hair and very untidy in her dress. I judged from her appearance that she had not come from a distance. She had nothing on her head, her sleeves were tucked up, she held a ladle in her hand, and she was chewing something or other. I am Manasala's wife, said she. Manasala Gricklin, I asked. Yes, said my visitor, Gricklin's, Gricklin's. I hastily slipped on a coat and begged her to be seated. Manasala was an old friend of mine. He was a capmaker, and we worked together in one shop, and I knew that he lived somewhere in the same tenement as myself, but it was the first time I had the honour of seeing his wife. Look here, began the woman. Don't you work in the same shop as my husband? Yes, yes, I said. Well, and now tell me, the yellow-haired woman gave a bound like a hyena. How is it I see you come home from work with all other respectable people, and my husband not? And it isn't the first time, either, that he's gone, goodness knows where, and come home two hours after everyone else. Where's he loitering about? I don't know, I replied gravely. The woman brandished her ladle in such a way that I began to think she meant murder. You don't know? She exclaimed with a sinister flash in her eyes. What do you mean by that? You two leave the shop together? How can you help seeing what becomes of him? Then I remembered that when Manasa and I left the shop, he walked with me for a few blocks and then went off in another direction, and that one day, when I asked him where he was going, he had replied to some friends. He must go to some friends, I said to the woman. To some friends, she repeated, and burst into strange laughter. Who? Who's ours? We're green as we have no friends. What friend should he have, poor miserable wretch? I don't know, I said, but that is what he told me. All right, said Manasa's wife. Ah, teach him a lesson he won't forget in a hurry. With these words, she departed. When she had left the room, I pictured to myself poor, consumptive Manasa being taught a lesson by his yellow-haired wife, and I pitted him. Manasa was a man of about thirty. His yellowish white face was set in a black beard. He was very thin, always ailing and coughing. He had never learned to write, and he read only Yiddish, a quiet, respectable man. I might almost say the only hand in the shop who never grudged a fellow worker his livelihood. He had been only a year in the country, and the others made sport of him, but I always stood up for him because I liked him very much. Wherever does he go now? I wandered to myself, and I resolved to find out. Next morning I met Manasa as usual, and at first I intended to tell him of his wife's visit to me the day before. But the poor operative looked so low-spirited, so thoroughly unhappy, that I felt sure his wife had already given him the promised lesson, and I hadn't the courage to mention her to him just then. In the evening, as we were going home from the workshop, Manasa said to me, did my wife come to see you yesterday? Yes, brother Manasa, I answered. She seemed something annoyed with you. She has a dreadful temper. Observe the workman. When she is really angry, she's fit to kill a man. But it's her bitter heart, poor thing. She's had so many troubles. We are so poor, and she's far away from her family. Manasa gave a deep sigh. She asked you where I go other days after work? He continued. Yes, and would you like to know? Why not, Mr. Grickland? Come along a few blocks further, said Manasa, and I'll show you. Come along, I agreed, and we walked on together. A few more blocks, and Manasa led me into a narrow street, not yet entirely built in with houses. Presently he stopped with a contented smile. I looked round in some astonishment. We were standing alongside a piece of waste-ground with a meagre fencing of stones and burnt wire, and utilised as a garden. Just look, said the workman, pointing at the garden. How delightful it is! Why, and so seldom sees anything of the kind in New York. Manasa went nearer to the fence, and his eyes wandered thirstily over the green flowering plants, just then in full beauty. I also looked at the garden. The things that grew there were unknown to me, and I was ignorant of their names. Only one thing had a familiar look. A few tall, graceful moons were scattered here and there over the place, and stood like absent-minded dreamers or beautiful sentinels, and the roses were in bloom, and their fragrance came in wafts over the fencing. You see, the moons? asked Manasa, wrapped atones, but more to himself than to me. Look how beautiful they are! I can't take my eyes off them! I am capable of standing and looking at them for hours. They make me feel happy, almost as if I were at home again. There were a lot of them at home. The operative sighed, lost himself a moment in thought, and said, When I smell the roses, I think of old days. We had quite a large garden, and I was so fond of it. When the flowers began to come out, I used to sit there for hours, and could never look at it enough. The roses appeared to be dreaming with their great golden eyes wide open. The cucumbers lay along the ground like pussycats, and the stalks and leaves spread ever so far across the beds. The beans fought for room like street urchins, and the pumpkins and the potatoes, ah, you should have seen them. And the flowers were all colours, pink and blue and yellow, and I felt as if everything were alive as if the whole garden were alive. I fancied I heard them talking together, the roses, the potatoes, the beans. I spent whole evenings in my garden. It was dear to me as my own soul. Look, look, look, don't the roses seem as if they were alive? But I looked at Manasseh and thought the consumptive workmen had grown younger and healthier. His face was less livid, and his eyes shone with happiness. Do you know, said Manasseh to me as we walked away from the garden, I had some cuttings of rose-trees at home in a basket out on the fire escape, and they had begun to bud. There was a pause. Well, I inquired, what happened? My wife laid out the mattress to air on top of the basket, and they were all crushed. Manasseh made an outward gesture with his hand, and I asked no more questions. The pokey, stuffy shop in which he worked came into my mind, and my heart was sore for him. End of Manasseh by S. Libin. Section 31 of Yiddish Tales This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Yiddish Tales translated by Helen Frank and read by Adrian Pretzelis. Section 31 Your Side for Mother by S. Libin. The Ginsburg's first child died of inflammation of the lungs when it was two years and three months old. The young couple were in the depths of grief and despair. They even thought seriously of committing suicide. But people do not do everything they think of doing. Neither Ginsburg nor his wife had the courage to throw themselves into the cold and grisly arms of death. They only despaired till, some time after, a newborn child bound them once more to life. It was a little girl, and they named her Devora after Ginsburg's dead mother. The Ginsburgs were free thinkers in the full sense of the word, and their naming the child after the dead had no superstitious significance whatsoever. It came about quite simply. To be new, Ginsburg had asked his wife, how shall we call our daughter? I don't know, replied the young mother. No more do I, said Ginsburg. Let us call her Devora-la, suggested Dober automatically gazing at her pretty baby and very little concerned about its name. Had Ginsburg any objection to make? None at all, and the child's name was Devora-la, henceforward. When the first child had lived to be a year old, the parents had made a feast day and invited guests to celebrate their first-born's first birthday with them. With the second child it was not so. The Ginsburgs loved their Devora-la, loved her painfully, infinitely. But when it came to the anniversary of her birth, they made no rejoicings. I do not think I shall be going too far if I say they did not dare to do so. Devora-la was an uncommon child, a bright, girly, sweet-tempered, pretty and clever, the light of the house, shining into its every corner. She could be a whole world of delight to her parents, this wee Devora-la. But it was not the delight nor the happiness they had known with their first child. Not the same. That had been so free, so careless. Now it was different. Terrible pictures of death, of a child's death, would rise up in the midst of their joy, and their gladness suddenly ended in a heavy sigh. They would be at the height of enchantment, kissing and hugging the child and laughing aloud. They would be singing to it and romping about with it. Everything else would be forgotten. Then, without wishing to do so, they would suddenly remember that not so long ago it was another child, also a girl, that went off into just the same silvery little bursts of laughter. And now, where is it? Dead. And oh, it goes through the heart. The parents turn pale in the midst of their merrymaking. The mother's eyes fill with tears, and the father's head droops. Who knows, sighs Dober, looking at their little laughing Devora-la. Who knows? Ginsburg understands the meaning of her question and is silent because he is afraid to say anything in reply. It seems to me that parents who have buried their firstborn can never be really happy again. So, Devora's first birthday was allowed to pass as it were unnoticed. When it came to her second, it was nearly the same thing. Only Dober said, Ginsburg, when our daughter is three years old, we will have great rejoicings. They waited for the day with trembling hearts. Their child's third year was full of terror for them, because their eldest born had died in her third year, and they felt as though it must be the most dangerous one for their second child. A dreadful conviction began to haunt them both. Only they were afraid to confess it one to the other. This conviction, this fixed idea of theirs, was that when Devora-la reached the age of their eldest child when it died, death would once more call their household to mind. Devora-la grew to be two years and eight months old. Oh, it was a terrible time, and the child fell ill with inflammation of the lungs just like the other one. Oh, pictures that arose and stood before the parents. Oh, terror! Oh, calamity! They were free thinkers, the Ginsburgs, and if anyone had told them that they were not free from what they called superstition, that the belief in a higher power beyond our understanding still had root in their being, if you had spoken thus to Ginsburg or his wife, they would have laughed at you, both of them, out of the depths of a full heart, and with laughter more serious than many another's words. But what happened now is wonderful to tell. Dober, sitting by the sick child's cot, began to speak gravely as in a dream. Who knows? Who knows? Perhaps, perhaps. She did not conclude. Perhaps what? asked Ginsburg impatiently. Why should it come like this? Dober went on. The same child, the same time, the same sickness. A simple, blind coincidence of circumstances, replied her husband. But so exactly one like the other as if somebody had made it happen on purpose. Ginsburg understood his wife's meaning and answered short and sharp. Dober, don't talk nonsense. Meanwhile, Devoral's illness developed and the day came on which the doctor said that a crisis would occur within 24 hours. What this meant to the Ginsburgs would be difficult to describe, but each of them determined privately not to survive the loss of their second child. They sat beside it, not lifting their eyes from its face. They were pale and dazed with grief and sleepless nights. Their hearts, half dead within them, they shed no tears. They were so much more dead than alive themselves. And the child's flame of life flickered and dwindled, flickered and dwindled. A tangle of memories were stirring in Ginsburg's head, all relating to deaths and graves. He lived through the death of their first child with all the details, his father's death, his mother's. Early in the summer morning, that was, that was, he recalls it, as though it were to-day. What is to-day, he wonders? What day of the month is it? And then he remembers it is the first of May. The same day, he murmurs, as if he were talking in his sleep. What, the same day? asks Dober. Nothing, says Ginsburg. I was thinking of something. He went on thinking and fell into a doze where he sat. He saw his mother enter the room with a soft step, take a chair, and sit down by the sick child. Mother, save it! He begs her, his heart is full to bursting, and he begins to cry. Isrolik, says his mother, I have brought a remedy for the child that bears my name. Mama! He is about to throw himself upon her neck and kiss her, but she motions him lightly aside. Why did you never light a candle for my yard site? She inquires and looks at him reproachfully. Mama, have pity on us, save the child! The child will live. Only you must light me a candle. Mama! He sobs louder, have pity! Light my candle, make haste, make haste! Ginsberg! A shriek from his wife and he awoke with a start. Ginsberg, the child is dying! Fly for the doctor! Ginsberg cast a look at the child. A chill went through him. He ran to the door. The doctor came in person. Our child is dying! Help save it! Wailed the unhappy mother, and he, Ginsberg, stood and shivered as with cold. The doctor scrutinised the child and said the crisis is coming on. There was something dreadful in the quiet of his tone. What can be done? And the Ginsbergs wrung their hands. Hush! Nothing! Bring some hot water bottles, bottles of hot water, champagne! Where is the medicine? Quick! Commanded the doctor. Everything was to hand and ready in an instant. The doctor began to busy himself with the child. The parents stood by, pale as death. Well, asked Dober. What? We shall soon know, said the doctor. Ginsberg looked round, glided like a shadow into a corner of the room and lit the little lamp that stood there. What is that for? Asked Dober in a fright. Nothing, your sight, my mother's. He answered in a strange voice, and his hands never ceased trembling. Your child will live, said the doctor, and father and mother fell upon the child's bed with their faces and wept. And the flame in the lamp burnt brighter and brighter. End of Yacht Sight for Mother by S. Libbin. Section 32 of Yiddish Tales. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Yiddish Tales, translated by Helena Frank and read by Adrian Pretzellus. Section 32 Slack Times They Sleep by S. Libbin. Despite the fact of the winter nights being long and dark as the Jewish exile, the beckolines go to bed at dusk. But you may as well know that when it is dusk outside in the street, the beckolines are already way on in the night because they live in a basement operated from the rest of the world by an air-shaft. And when the sun gathers his beams round him before setting, the first to be summoned are those down the beckolines' air-shaft because of the time required for them to struggle out again. The same thing in the morning, only reversed. People don't usually get up if they can help it before it is really light, and so it comes to pass that when other people have left their beds and are going about their business, the beckolines are still asleep and making the long, long night longer yet. If you ask me how is it they don't wear their sides out lying in bed, I shall reply they do rise with aching sides. And if you say how can people be so lazy, I can tell you they don't do it out of laziness and they lie awake a great deal of the time. What's the good of lying in bed if one isn't asleep? There you have it in a nutshell. It's a question of the economic conditions. The beckolines are very poor, their life is a never-ending struggle with poverty and they have come to the conclusion that the cheapest way of waging it, and especially in winter, is to lie in bed under a great heap of old clothes and rags of every description. Brecklin is a house painter, and from Christmas to Purim, the half-deal, work is dreadfully slack. When you're not earning a crooked penny, what are you to do? In the first place, you must live on cash, that is, on the few dollars scraped together and put by during the season. And in the second place, you must cut down on your domestic expenses, otherwise the money won't hold out, and then you might as well keep your teeth in a drawer. But you may neither eat nor drink, nor live at all to mention, if it's winter, the money goes all the same. It's bitterly cold and you can't do without the stove and the nights are long and you want a lamp, and the Brecklin saw that their money would not hold out till Purim, that their ta'anis ester, their fast of ester, would be too long. Coal was beyond them and kerosene as dear as wine, and yet how could they possibly spend less? How could they do without a fire when it was so cold, without a lamp when it was so dark? And the Brecklins had an idea. Why sit up at night and watch the stove and the lamp burning away their money when they might get into bed, bury themselves in rags and defy both poverty and cold? There is nothing in particular to do anyhow. Why should there be a long winter evening through? Nothing. They only sat and poured out the bitterness of their heart, one upon the other, quarreled and scolded. They could do that in bed just as well and save the firing and light into the bargain. So, at the first approach of darkness, the bed was made ready for Mr. Brecklin and his wife put to sleep their only three-year-old child. Avremla did not understand why he was put to bed so early, but he asked no questions. The room began to feel cold and the poor thing was glad to nestle deep into the bed coverings. The lamp and the fire were extinguished, the stove would soon go out of itself and the Brecklin family slept. They slept and fought against poverty by lying in bed. It was waging cheap warfare. Having had his first sleep out, Brecklin turns to his wife. What do you suppose the time to be now, Judith? Judith listens attentively. It must be past eight o'clock, she says. What makes you think so? asked Brecklin. Don't you hear the clatter of knives and forks? Well, to-do, folks, of having supper. We used to have supper about this time in the to-sissing, said Brecklin, and he gave a deep sigh of longing. We shall soon forget the good times altogether, said Judith, and the husband and wife set sail once more for the land of dreams. A few hours later, Brecklin awakes with a groan. What's the matter? inquires Judith. My sides ache with lying. Mine too, says Judith, and they both begin yawning. What o'clock would it be now? wonders Brecklin, and Judith listens again. About ten o'clock, she tells him. No later? I don't believe it. It must be a great deal later than that. Well, listen for yourself, persists Judith, and you'll hear the housekeeper upstairs scolding somebody. She's putting out the gas in the hall. Ay, vey is mere! How the night drags! Sighs Brecklin, and turns over on his other side. Judith goes on talking, but as much to herself as to him. Upstairs they are still all alive, and we are asleep in bed. Vey is mere! vey is mere! Sighs Brecklin over and over, and once more there is silence. The night wears on. Are you asleep? asks Brecklin suddenly. I wish I were. Who could sleep through such a long night? I'm lying awake and racking my brains. What over? asks Brecklin, interested. I'm trying to think, explains Judith, what we can have for dinner tomorrow that will cost nothing, and yet be satisfying. Ay, vey is mere! sighs Brecklin again, and is at a loss what to advise. I wonder, this time it is Judith, what a clock it is now. It will soon be morning, is Brecklin's opinion. Morning, nonsense! Judith knows better. It must be morning soon! he holds to it. You are very anxious for the morning, says Judith, good-naturedly, and so you think it will soon be here, and I tell you, it's not midnight yet. What are you talking about? You don't know what you're saying. I shall go out of my mind. You know, says Judith, that if Ramla always wakes up at midnight and cries, and he's still fast asleep. No, Mama, comes from under a Vremla's heat of rags. Come to me, my beauty, so he was awake after all, and Judith reaches out her arms for the child. Perhaps he's cold, says Brecklin. Are you cold, Gingela? asks Judith. Cold, Mama, replies a Vremla. Judith wraps the covelets closer and closer round him and presses him to her side. And the night wears on. Oh, my sides! groans Brecklin. Mine too! moans Judith, and they start another conversation. This time they discuss their neighbours. Another time the Brecklins try to calculate what it is since they married, and how much they spend a week on an average, and what was the cost of Judith's confinement. It is seldom they calculate anything right. But talking helps to while away time till the basement begins to lighten, whereupon the Brecklins jump out of bed as though it were some perilous hiding place and set to work in a great hurry until the stove. End of Slacktimes They Sleep by S. Libin. Section 33 of Yiddish Tales. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Yiddish Tales translated by Helena Frank and read by Adrian Pretzellus. Section 33 Abraham Raison. Born 1876 in Kydenov, government of Minsk, Lithuania, White Russia. Traditional Jewish education. Self-taught in Russian language. Teacher at 15. First in Kydenov, then in Minsk. First poem published in Peres Yiddish a bibliothèque in 1891. Served in the army in Kovno for four years. Went to Warsaw in 1900, and to New York in 1911. Yiddish lyric poet and novelist. Occasionally writes Hebrew. Contributed to Spectre's Housefront. New York Arbenpost and New York Arbiterzeitung. Co-editor of Das Schwanzische Jahrhunderte. In 1903 published and edited in Krakow Das Yiddische Wort. First to urge the claim of Yiddish as the national Jewish language. Publisher and editor since 1911 of Das Neue Lundt in New York. Collected works, poems and tales, four volumes Warsaw 1908 to 1912. Shut in by Abraham Reisen. Lebel is a little boy ten years old with pale cheeks, liquid dreamy eyes and black hair that falls in twisted ringlets. But of course the ringlets are only seen when his hat falls off, for Lebel is a pious little boy who never uncovers his head. There are things that Lebel loves and never has, or else he has only them in part, and that is why his eyes are always dreamy and troubled and always full of longing. He loves the summer and sits the whole day in Haida. Lebel loves the sun and the Rebbe hangs his calf down across the window and the Haida is darkened so that it oppresses the soul. Lebel loves the moon the night, but at home they close the shutters and Lebel on his little bed feels as if he were buried alive and Lebel cannot understand people's behaving so oddly. It seems to him that when the sun shines in at the window it is a delight. It is so pleasant and cheerful and the Rebbe goes and curtains it, no more sun. If Lebel dared he would ask what ails you, Rebbe, at the sun? What harm can it do you? But Lebel never will put that question. The Rebbe is such a great and learned man. He must know best. Ay, how dare he, Lebel, disapprove. He is only a little boy. When he is grown up he will doubtless curtain the window himself. But as things are now Lebel is not happy and feels sadly perplexed at the behaviour of his elders. Late in the evening he comes home from Haida. The sun has already set. It is cheerful and merry. The cockchafers whiz and flying hit him on the nose, the ear, the forehead. He would like to play about a bit in the street. Let them have supper without him. But he is afraid of his father. His father is a kind man when he talks to strangers. He is so gentle, so considerate, so confidential. But to him, to Lebel, he is very unkind always shouting at him and if Lebel comes from Haida a few minutes late he will be angry. Where have you been, my fine fellow? Have you business anywhere? Now go and tell him that it is not at all so bad out in the street. That it is a pleasure to hear how the cockchafers were. That even the hits they give you are weeing are friendly and mean hello old fellow. Of course it is a wild absurdity. It amuses him because he is only a little boy while his father is a great man who trades in wood and corn and he always knows the current prices when a thing is dearer and when it is cheaper. His father can speak the Gentile language and drive bargains. His father understands the Prussian weights. Is that a man to be thought likely of? Go and tell him if you dare that it is delightful now out in the street and Lebel hurries straight home. When he has reached it his father asks him how many chapters he has mastered and if he answers five he will hum a tune without looking at him and he says only three. His father is angry and asks how is that? Why so little? And Lebel is silent and feels guilty before his father. After that his father makes him translate a Hebrew word translate Kim Lunar. Kim Lunar means like a passing the night answers Lebel is terrified. His father is silent a sign that he is satisfied and they sit down to supper. Lebel's father keeps an eye on him the whole time and instructs him how to eat. Is that how you hold your spoon? inquires the father and Lebel holds the spoon lower and the food sticks in his throat. After supper Lebel has to say the Birkat Hamazon allowed an incorrect Hebrew calling to custom. If he mumbles a word his father calls out What did I hear? What? What's more with Vaal Achilas Mazon wherewith thou dost feed and sustain us Well, come say it Don't be in a hurry it won't burn you and Lebel says it over again though he is in a great hurry although he longs to run out into the street and the words do seem to burn him When it is dark he repeats Myrith by lamp-light his father is always catching him making a mistake and Lebel has to keep all his wits about him the moon round and shining is already floating through the sky and Lebel repeats the prayers and looks at her and looks after the street and he gets confused in his praying Benching over he escapes out of the house puzzled over some question in the Talmud against the morrow's lesson He delays there a while gazing at the moon as she pours her pale beams onto the gas then he soon hears his father's voice Come indoors to bed It is warm outside there is not a breath of air stirring and yet it seems to Lebel as though a wind came along with his father's words and he grows cold and he goes in like one chilled to the bone and takes his stand by the window and stares at the moon It is time to close the shutters there's nothing to sit up for Lebel hears his father say but his heart sinks his father goes out and Lebel sees the shutters swinging too resist as though they were being closed against their will and presently there is a loud bang No more moon his father has hidden it A while after the lamp has been put out the room is dark and all are asleep but Lebel, whose bed is by the window he cannot sleep he wants to be in the street when sounds come in through the chinks he tries to sit up in bed to peer out also through the chinks and even to open a bit of the shutter without making any noise and to look, look but without success for just then his father wakes and calls out What are you after there, eh? Do you want me to come with the strap? and Lebel nestles quietly down again into his pillow pulls the coverlet over his head and feels as though he were buried alive end of shut in by Abraham Raison section 34 of Yiddish Tales this LibriVox recording is in the public domain Yiddish Tales translated by Helena Frank and read by Adrian Pretzelis section 34 read as note on the charitable loan by Abraham Raison in Hebrew the title of the story would be HaGamach this is an acronym for the phrase Gimilus Chesed or an act of loving-kindness in this story, Gamach is an interest-free loan that's offered solely to help someone in need so when you listen to this story remember that in the Jewish tradition Gamach is not just a good thing to do but an actual responsibility for those who can offer it end of my readers note the Charitable Loan by Abraham Raison the largest fair in Klamenko is Ulas the little town waits for Ulas with a beating heart and extravagant hopes Ulas, say the Klamenko shopkeepers and traders is a heavenly blessing were it not for Ulas Klamenko would long ago have been House Klamenko America would have taken its last few remaining Jews to herself but for Ulas one must have the wherewithal the shopkeepers need wares and the traders money without the wherewithal even Ulas is no good and Chaim, the dealer in produce goes about gloomily there are only three days left before Ulas and he hasn't a penny wherewith to buy corn to trade with and the other dealers in produce circulate in the marketplace with caps awry thickly rolled cigarettes in their mouths and walking sticks in their hands and they are talking hard about the fair in three days it will be lively calls out one Pasha-sha cries another in ecstasy in three days time the place will be packed and Chaim turns pale he would like to call down a calamity on the fair he wishes it might rain, snow or storm on that day so that not even a mad dog should come to the marketplace only Chaim knows that Ulas is no weakling Ulas is not afraid of the strongest wind Ulas is Ulas and Chaim's eyes are ready to start out of his head a charitable loan where is one to get a charitable loan if only five and twenty rubles he asks it of everyone but they only answer with a merry laugh are you mad? money! just before a fair and it seems to Chaim that he really will go mad suppose you went across to Loi Barbaris suggests his wife who takes her full share in his distress I thought of that myself answers Chaim meditatively but what? asks the wife Chaim is about to reply but I can't go there I haven't the courage only that doesn't suit him to be quite so frank with his wife and he answers devil take him he won't lend anything it won't hurt she persists and Chaim reflects that he has no other resource that Loi Barbaris is a rich man and living in the same street and neighbour in fact and that he requires no money for the fair being a dealer in lumber and timber get me out my Sabbath overcoat says Chaim to his wife in a resolute tone didn't I say so the wife answers it's the best thing you can do to go to him Chaim placed himself before a half broken looking glass which was nailed to the wall smoothed his beard with both hands tightened his earlocks and then took off his hat and gave it a polish with his sleeve just look and see I haven't got any white on my coat off the wall if you haven't the wife answers and began slapping him with both hands over the shoulders I thought we once had a little clothes brush where is it huh perhaps you dreamed it replied his wife still slapping him on the shoulders and she went on well I should say you've got some white on your coat come that'll do said Chaim almost angrily I'll go now he drew on his Sabbath overcoat with a sigh and muttering very likely isn't it who lend me some money he went out on the way to Leiber Barris Chaim's heart began to fail him since the day that Leiber Barris came to live at the end of the street Chaim had been in the house only twice and the path Chaim was treading now was as bad as an examination the approach to him the light rooms, the great mirrors, the soft chairs Leiber Barris himself with his long thick beard and his black eyes with their guverisher glance the lady, the merry happy children even the maid who had remained in his memory since those two visits all these things together terrified him and he asked himself where are you going to? are you mad? home with you at once and every now and then he would stop short on the way only the thought that Ulas was near and that he had no money to buy corn drove him to continue he won't lend anything it's no good hoping Chaim was preparing himself as he walked for the shock of disappointment but he felt that if he gave way to that extent he would never be able to open his mouth to make his request known and he tried to cheer himself if I catch him in a good humour he will lend why should he be afraid of lending me a few roubles over the fare I shall tell him that as soon as ever I have sold the corn he shall have the loan back I will swear it by my wife and children he will believe me and I will pay it back but this does not make Chaim any the bolder and he tries another sort of comfort another remedy against nervousness he isn't a bad man and after all our acquaintance won't date from today we've been living in the same street twenty years Parabotska Street and Chaim recollects that a fortnight ago as Loiber Barris was passing his house on his way to the marketplace and he, Chaim, was standing in the yard he gave him a greeting due to a gentleman and I could swear I gave him my hand Chaim reminded himself Loiber Barris had made a friendly reply he had even stopped and asked like an old acquaintance Well, Chaim, how are you getting on? and Chaim strains his memory and remembers further that he answered in this wise I thank you for asking heaven forgive me one does a little bit of business and Chaim is satisfied with his reply I answered him quite at my ease Chaim resolves to speak to him this time even more leisurely and independently not to cringe before him Chaim could already see Loiber Barris's house in the distance he coughed till his throat was clear stroked his beard down and looked at his coat still a very good coat, he said aloud as though trying to persuade himself that the coat was still good so that he might feel a little more courage and more proper pride when he got to Loiber Barris's big house when the eight large windows looking on the street flashed into his eyes the windows being brightly illuminated from within his heart gave a flutter I could avoid a shallow elum gavalt help came of its own accord to his lips then he felt ashamed and caught himself up at nonsense as he pushed the door open the prayer escaped him once more gavalt mighty God help or it will be the death of me Loiber Barris was seated at a large table covered with a clean white tablecloth and drinking while he talked cheerfully to his household there's a dew-come tarty called out a boy of twelve on seeing Chaim standing by the door so there is called out a second little boy still more merrily fixing Chaim with his large black mischievous eyes all the rest of those at table began looking at Chaim and he thought every moment that he must fall of a heap onto the floor it will look very black if I fall he said to himself made a step forward and without saying good evening I just happened to be passing you understand and I saw you sitting so I knew you were at home well I thought one ought to call neighbours well welcome welcome said Loiber Barris smiling you've come at the right moment sit down a stone rolled off Chaim's heart at this reply and with a glance at the two little boys he quietly took a seat Laia give Rem Chaim a glass of tea commanded Loiber Barris what a kind man thought Chaim may the Almighty come to his aid he gave his host a grateful look and would gladly have fallen onto the Govir's thick neck and kissed him well and what are you about thanks be to God one lives the maid handed him a glass of tea he said thank you and then was sorry it is not the proper thing to thank a servant he grew red and bit his lips have some jelly with it Loiber Barris suggested an excellent excellent man thought Chaim astonished he is sure to lend you are dealing something asked Loiber Barris why yes answered Chaim one's little bit of business thank heaven is no worse than other people's and what price are oats fetching now it occurred to the Govir to ask oats had fallen of late it seemed better to Chaim to say that they had risen they have risen very much he declared in a mercantile tone of voice well and have you some oats ready inquired the Govir further I've got a nice lot of oats and they didn't cost me much either I got them quite cheap replied Chaim with more warmth forgetting while he spoke he hadn't an ear of oats in his granary for weeks and you are thinking of doing a little speculating asked Loiber Barris are you not in need of any money thanks be to God replied Chaim proudly I have never yet been in need of money why did I say that he thought then in terror at his own words am I going to ask for a loan now and Chaim wanted to back the cart a little only Loiber Barris prevented him by saying so I understand you make a good thing of it you are quite a wealthy man my wealth be to my enemies Chaim wanted to draw back but after a glance at Loiber Barris shining face at the blue jar with the jelly answered proudly thank heaven I have nothing to complain of there goes your charitable loan the thought came like a kick in the back of his head why are you boasting like that tell him you want 25 rubles for Ulus that he must save you that you are in despair that but Chaim fell deeper and deeper into a contented and happy way of talking praised his business more and more and converse with the Gavir as with an equal but he soon began to feel that he was one too many that he should not have sat there so long or have talked in that way it would have been better to have talked about the fare about a loan now it was too late I have no need of money and Chaim gave a despairing look at Loiber Barris cheerful face at the two little boys who sat opposite and watched him with slimest chevious eyes and who whispered knowingly to each other and then smiled more knowingly still a cold perspiration covered him he rose from his chair are you going already observed Loiber Barris politely now perhaps I could ask him it flashed across Chaim's mind that he might yet save himself but stealing a glance at the two little boys with the roguish eyes that watched him so slyly he replied with dignity I must a business there's no time and it seems to him as he goes towards the door that the two little boys with the mischievous eyes are putting out their tongues after him Barris himself smiles and says stick your tongues out further further still Chaim's shoulders seem to burn and he makes haste to get out of the house end of The Charitable Loan by Abraham Raison Readers Note in this story the boys speak of having no Monday this is a reference to their Monday Essentog or Eating Day the custom by which poor Yeshiva students who lived away from home arranged to be fed by a different family each night of the week and of My Readers Note The Two Brothers by Abraham Raison It is three months since Yankel and Beryl Two Brothers, the first 14 years old the second 16 have been at the college that stands in the town of X five German miles from their birthplace Dallas Kovka after which they are called the Dallas Kovkas Yankel is a slight pale boy with black eyes that peeps slyly from beneath the two black eyebrows Beryl is taller and stouter than Yankel his eyes are lighter and his glance is more defiant as though he would say let me alone I shall laugh at you all yet The Two Brothers lodged with a poor relation a widow a dealer in second hand goods who never came home till late at night The Two Brothers had no bed but a chest which was broad enough served instead and The Brothers slept sweetly on it covered with their own torn clothes and in their dreams they saw their native place the little street their home their father with his long beard and dim eyes and bent back and their mother with her long pale melancholy face and they heard The Little Brothers and Sisters quarrelling as they fought over a bit of herring and they dreamt other dreams of home and early in the morning they were homesick and then they used to run to the Dallas Kafka Inn and ask the carrier there if there were a letter from them from home The Dallas Kafka carriers were good Jews with soft hearts and they were sorry for the two poor boys who were so anxious for news from home whose eyes burned and whose hearts beat so fast, so loud but the carriers were very busy they came charged with a thousand messages from the Dallas Kafka shopkeepers and traders and they carried more letters than the post but with infinitely less method letters were lost and parcels were heard of no more and the distracted carriers scratched the nape of their neck and replied to every question directly, directly, I shall find it directly no, I don't seem to have anything for you that is how they answered the grown people who came to them but our two little brothers stood and looked at laser the carrier a man in a wadded kaftan summer and winter with thirsty eyes and aching hearts stood and waited hoping he would notice them and say something if only one word but laser was always busy now he had gone into the yard to feed the horse now he had run into the inn and entered into a conversation with the clerk of a great store who had brought a list wanted from a shop in Dallas Kafka and the brothers used to stand and stand till the elder one, Barrel, lost patience biting his lips and all but crying with vexation he would just articulate Reblazer, is there a letter from father? Bar to Reblazer would either suddenly cease to exist or run out into the street with somebody or other or be absorbed in a conversation and Barrel hardly expected the answer which Reblazer would give over his shoulder there isn't one, there isn't one there isn't one Barrel would say with a deep sigh and sadly called to Yankle to come away mournfully and with a broken spirit they went to where the day's meal awaited them I'm sure he loses the letters Yankle would say a few minutes later as they walked home he is a bad man Barrel would mutter with vexation but one day Laser handed them a letter and a small parcel the letter ran thus Dear children be good boys and learn with diligence we send you here with half a cheese and a quarter of a pound of sugar and a little berry juice in a bottle eat it in good health and do not quarrel over it from me your father I am hecht that day Laser the Carrier was the best man in the world in their eyes they would not have been ashamed to eat him up with horse and cart for very love they wrote an answer at once in the letter paper they used to tear out with fluttering hearts the first unprinted pages in the Gamora and gave it that evening to Laser the Carrier Laser took it coldly pushed it into the breast of his coat and muttered something like alright What did he say Barrel? asked Yankle anxiously I think he said alright Barrel answered doubtfully I think he said so too Yankle persuaded himself then he gave a sigh and added fearfully he may lose the letter but your tongue out answered Barrel angrily and he went sadly away to supper and three times a week early in the morning when Laser the Carrier came driving the brothers flew not ran to the Dallas Kafka Inn to ask for an answer to their letter and Laser the Carrier grew more preoccupied and cross and answered either with mumbled words which the brothers could not understand and dared not ask him to repeat or else not at all so that they went away with heavy hearts but one day they heard Laser the Carrier speak distinctly so that they understood quite well What are you doing here you two? What do you come plaguing me for? Letter fiddle sticks How much do you pay me? Am I a postman? Eh? Be off with you and don't worry The boys obeyed but only in part their hearts were like lead their thin little legs shook and tears fell from their eyes onto the ground and they went no more to Laser the Carrier to ask for a letter I wish he was dead and buried they exclaimed but they did not mean it and they longed all the time just to go and look at Laser the Carrier his horse and cart after all they came from Dallas Kafka and the two brothers loved them One day two or three weeks after the Carrier sent them about their business in the way described the two brothers were sitting in the house of the poor relation and talking about home it was summertime and a Friday afternoon I wonder what father is doing now said Yankel staring at the small panes in the small window He must be cutting his nails answered Beryl with a melancholy smile he must be chopping up lambs feet imagined Yankel and mother is combing Hanela and Hanela is crying now we've talked nonsense enough decided Beryl how can we know what is going on there perhaps somebody's dead added Yankel in sudden terror stuff and nonsense said Beryl when people die they let one know perhaps they wrote and the Carrier won't give us the letter aye that's chatter enough Beryl was quite cross shut up donkey you make me laugh and he went on to reassure Yankel they're all alive and well Yankel became cheerful again and all at once he gave a bound into the air and exclaimed with eager eyes Beryl what do I say let's write by the post write you are agreed Beryl only I've no money I have four Kopecks they are over from the ten I got last night you know at my Thursday they give me ten Kopecks for supper and I have four over and I have one Kopeck said Beryl just enough for a postcard but which of us will write it asked Yankel I answered Beryl I am the eldest I'm a first born son but I gave four Kopecks a first born is worth more than four Kopecks no I will write half and you'll write half huh very well come and buy a card and the two brothers ran to buy a card at the post office there will be no room for anything complained Yankel on the way home as he contemplated the small postcard we will make tiny little letters teeny weeny ones advised Beryl father won't be able to read them never mind he will put on his spectacles come along quicker urged Yankel his heart was already full of words like a sea and he wanted to pour it out into the bit of paper the scrap on which he had spent his entire fortune they reached their lodging and settled down to write Beryl began and Yankel stood and looked on begin higher up there's room there for a whole line why did you put to my beloved father so low down shrieked Yankel where am I to put it then in the sky hmm asked Beryl and pushed Yankel aside go away I will leave you half don't confuse me you be quiet and Yankel moved away and stared with terrified eyes at Beryl as he sat there bent double and wrote and wrote knitted his brows and dipped the pen and reflected and wrote again that's enough screamed Yankel after a few minutes it's not the half yet answered Beryl writing on but I ought to have more than half said Yankel crossly the longing to write to pour his heart out onto the postcard was overwhelming him but Beryl did not even hear he had launched out into such rhetorical Hebrew expressions as first of all I let you know that I am alive and well which he had learned in the perfect letter writer and his little bit of news remained unwritten he had yet to abuse laser the carrier to tell how many pages of the Gomorrah he had learned to let them know that they were to send another parcel because they had no Monday and no Wednesday and the Tuesday was no better than nothing and Beryl writes and writes and Yankel can no longer contain himself he sees that Beryl is taking up more than half the card enough to the cry and seize the pen holder three words more begged Beryl but remember no more than three and Yankel's eyes flashed Beryl set to work to write the three words but that which he wished to express required yet ten to fifteen words and Beryl excited by the fact of writing pecked away at the paper and he took up yet another bit of the other half you stop shrieked Yankel and broke into hysterical sobs as he saw what a small space remained for him just from me thy son begged Beryl nothing else but Yankel remembering that he had given a whole veria toward the postcard and that they would read so much Beryl at home and so little of him fled into a passion and came and tried to tear away the card from under Beryl's hands let me put from me thy son implored Beryl it will do without from me thy son screamed Yankel although he felt one ought to put it his anger rose and he began tugging at the card Beryl held tight but Yankel gave such a pull that the card tore in two what have you done villain cried Beryl glaring at Yankel I meant to do it wild Yankel oh but why did you cried Beryl gazing in despair at the two torn halves of the postcard but Yankel could not answer the tears choked him and he threw himself against the wall tearing his hair then Beryl gave way to and the little room resounded with lamentations and of the two brothers by Abraham Raisen section 36 of Yiddish Tales the LibriVox recording is in the public domain Yiddish Tales translated by Helena Frank and read by Adrian Pretzelis section 36 Lost His Voice by Abraham Raisen it was in the large synagogue in Clamenca the weekday service had come to an end the town Cantor who sings all the prayers even when he prays alone and who is longer over them than other people had already folded his talus and was humming the day's psalm to himself to a tune he sang the last words cantoriously high and he will be our guide until death in the last word death he tried as usual to rise artistically to the higher octave and then to fall very low and to rise again almost at once into the height but this time he failed the note stuck in his throat and came out false he got a fright and in his fright he looked around to make sure no one was standing beside him seeing only old Henoch his alarm grew less he knew that old Henoch was death as he went out with his talus and to fill in under his arm the unsuccessful death rang in his ears and troubled him plague take it he muttered it never once happened to me before soon however he remembered that two weeks ago on the Sabbath before the new moon as he stood praying with the choristers before the Erona Kodesh nearly the same thing had happened to him when he sang he is our God as a solo in the Kodesh happily no one had remarked it anyway the bass had said nothing to him and the memory of the unsuccessful Shema Yisra'el of two weeks ago and of today's unto death were mingled together and lay heavily on his heart he would have liked to try the note once more as he walked but the street was just then full of people and he tried to refrain till he should reach home contrary to his usual custom he began taking rapid steps and it looked as if he were running away from someone on reaching home he put away his talus without saying so much as a good morning recovered his breath after the quick walk and began to sing we are guide until death that's right you have so little time to sing in the day is too short for you exclaimed the cantoress angrily it grates on the ears enough already how it grates and the cantor's eyes open wide with fright I sing a note and you say it grates great he looked at her imploringly his eyes said pity on me don't say it great because if it does great I'm miserable I am done for but the cantoress was much too busy and preoccupied with the dinner to sympathise and to understand how things stood with her husband and went on of course it grates but didn't it it defends me when you sing in the choir I have to bear it but when you begin by yourself what the cantor had grown as white as chalk and only just managed to say gruna are you mad what are you talking about what hails the man today exclaimed gruna impatiently say to yourself long enough go wash your hands and come to dinner the cantor felt no appetite and he reflected that one must eat if only as a remedy not to eat would make matters worse and he washed his hands he chanted the burqaatama zone loud and cantor like glancing occasionally at his wife to see if she noticed anything wrong but this time she said nothing at all and he was reassured it was my fancy just my fancy he said to himself all nonsense one doesn't lose one's voice so soon as all that then he remembered that he was already 40 years old and it had happened to the cantor Maya later when he was just that age that was enough to put him in a fright again he bent his head and thought deeply then he raised it and called out loud gruna what makes you call out in that strange voice asked gruna crossly running in well well let me live said the cantor why do you say in that strange voice whose voice was it what is the matter now there was a sound as of tears as he spoke you're cracked today as nonsensical well what do you want beat up one or two eggs for me beg the cantor softly here's a new holiday screamed gruna on a Wednesday have you got to chant the Sabbath prayers eggs are so dear now five copecs apiece gruna commanded the cantor they may be one ruble apiece two rubles five rubles one hundred rubles do you hear me beat up two eggs for me and don't talk to be sure you earn so much money muttered gruna then you think it's all over with me said the cantor boldly no gruna wanted to tell her that he wasn't sure about it yet there was still hope it might be all a fancy perhaps it was imagination but he was afraid to say all that and gruna did not understand what he stammered out she shrugged her shoulders and only said upon my word and went to beat up the eggs the cantor sat and sang to himself after every note as though he were examining someone finding himself unable to take the high octave he called out despairingly gruna make haste with the eggs his one hope lay in the eggs the cantoress brought them with a cross face and grumbled he wants eggs then we're pinching and starving the cantor would have liked to open his heart to her so that she would not think the eggs were what he cared about he would have liked to say gruna I think I'm done for but he summoned all his courage and refrained after all it may only be an idea he thought and without saying anything further he began to drink up the eggs as a remedy when they were finished he tried to make a few cantor like trills in this he succeeded and he grew more cheerful it will be all right he thought I shall not lose my voice so soon as all that never mind my a leader he drank I don't drink only little wine now and then at a bris his appetite returned and he swallowed mouthful after mouthful but his cheerfulness did not last the erstwhile unsuccessful death rang in his ears and the worry returned and took possession of him the fear of losing his voice had tormented the cantor for the greater part of his life his one care his one anxiety had been what should he do if he were to lose his voice it had happened to him once already when he was 14 years old he had a tenor voice which broke all of a sudden but that time he didn't care on the contrary he was delighted he knew that his voice was merely changing and that in six months he would get the baritone for which he was impatiently waiting but when he got the baritone he knew that when he lost that it would be lost indeed he would get no other voice so he took great care of it how much more so when he had his own household and had taken the office of cantor in clemenca not a breath of wind was allowed to blow upon his throat and he wore a comforter in the hottest weather it was not so much on account of the clemenca householders he felt sure they would not dismiss him from his office even if he were to lose his voice altogether he would still receive his salary it was not brought to him to his house as it was he had to go for it every Friday from door to door and the clemenca Jews were good-hearted and never refused anything to the outstretched hand he took care of his voice and trembled to lose it only out of love for the singing he thought a great deal of the clemenca Jews their like was not to be found but in the interpretation of music they were uninitiated they had no feeling whatsoever and when standing before the erona codash they would make artistic trills and variations and take the highest notes that was for himself he had great joy in it and also for his eight singers who were all the world to him his very life was bound up with them and when one of them exclaimed oh Cantor oh how you sing his happiness was complete the singers had come together from various towns and villages and all their conversations and their stories turned and wrapped themselves around Cantor's and music these stories and legends were the Cantor's delight he would lose himself in every one of them and give a sweet deep sigh as if music were a trifle as if a feeling were a toy and now that he had begun to fear he was losing his voice it seemed to him the singers were different people bad people they must be laughing at him amongst themselves he began to be on his guard against them avoided taking a high note in their presence lest they should find out and suffered all the more and what would the neighbouring Cantor say? the thought tormented him further he knew that he had a reputation among them that he was a great deal thought of that his voice was much talked of he saw in his mind's eye a couple of Cantor's whispering together and shaking their head sorrowfully they are pitying him how sad have you heard the poor Clamenca Cantor? the vision quite upset him perhaps it's only fancy he would say to himself in those dreadful moments and would begin to sing to try his highest notes but the terror he was in took away his hearing and he could not tell if his voice were what it should be or not in two weeks time his face grew pale and thin his eyes were sunk and he felt his strength going what is the matter with you Cantor? said a singer to him one day ah, what is the matter? asked the Cantor with a start thinking they had already found out you ask what is the matter with me? then you know something about it ha no, I know nothing that is why I ask you why you look so upset? upset you say nothing more than upset ha the Cantor must be thinking out some new peace for the solemn days decided the choir another month went by and the Cantor had not got the better of his fear life had become distasteful to him if he had known for certain that his voice was gone he would perhaps have been calmer the Fallon no one can live forever losing his voice and dying was one and the same to him but the uncertainty the tossing oneself between yes and no the oil and ha tohu of it all embittered the Cantor's existence at last the day the Cantor resolved to get at the truth he could bear it no longer it was evening the wife had gone to the market for meat and the choir had gone home only the eldest singer Yossil the bass remained with the Cantor the Cantor looked at him opened his mouth and shut it again it was difficult for him to say what he wanted to say at last he broke out with Yossil what is it Cantor tell me are you an honest man Yossil the bass stared at the Cantor and asked what are you asking me today Cantor brother Yossil the Cantor said all but weeping brother Yossil that was all he could say Cantor what is wrong with you brother Yossil be an honest man and tell me the truth the truth I don't understand what is the matter with you Cantor tell me the truth do you notice any change in me yes I do answered the singer looking at the Cantor and seeing how pale and thin he was a very great change now I see you are an honest man you tell me the truth to my face do you know when it began it will soon be a month answered the singer yes brother a month a month but I felt the Cantor wiped off the perspiration that covered his forehead and continued do you think Yossil that it's lost now for good and all that what is lost asked Yossil beginning to be aware that the conversation had turned on something quite different from what was in his own mind what how can you ask her what should I lose money I have no money I mean of course my voice then Yossil understood everything he was too much of a musician not to understand looking compassionately at the Cantor he asked for certain for certain exclaimed the Cantor trying to be cheerful why must it be for certain very likely it's all a mistake let us hope it is Yossil looked at the Cantor and as a doctor behaves to his patient so did he take do he said and the Cantor like an obedient pupil drew out do draw it out draw it out four quavers draw it out commanded Yossil listening attentively the Cantor drew it out now if you please the Cantor sang out ray ray ray the singer moved aside appeared to be lost in thought and then said sadly gone forever well are you a little boy are you likely to get another voice at your time of life gone is gone the Cantor rung his hands threw himself down beside the table and laying his head on his arms he burst out crying like a child next morning the whole town had heard of the misfortune that the Cantor had lost his voice it's an ill wind quoted the innkeeper a well to do man he won't keep us so long with his trills on sabbath I take a bitter onion for that voice of his any day end of lost his voice by Abraham Raison