 Section six of Yiddish Tales. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Yiddish Tales, translated by Helena Frank and read by Adrian Pretzelis. Section six. It is well by Isaac Loeb Perez. You ask how it is that I remained a Jew? Whose merit is it? Not through my own merits, nor those of my ancestors. I was a six-year-old Haider boy, my father, a countryman, outside Vilna, a householder in a small way. No, I remained a Jew thanks to the Chappell grandfather. How do I come to mention the Chappell grandfather? What is the Chappell grandfather to do with it, you ask? The Chappell grandfather was no Chappell grandfather then. He was a young man, suffering exile from home and kindred, wandering with a troupe of mendicants from congregation to congregation, from friendly in to friendly in, in all respects one of them. What difference his heart may have shown, who knows? And after these journeyman years, the time of revelation had not come even yet. He presented himself to the rabbinical board in Vilna, took out a certificate and became a sheuchet in a village. He roamed no more, but remained in the neighborhood of Vilna. The Miss Nagim, however, have a wonderful flair, and they suspected something began to worry and culminate him. And finally they denounced him to the rabbinical authorities as a transgressor of the law, of the whole law. What Miss Nagim are capable of to be sure? As I said, I was then six years old. He used to come to us to slaughter small cattle, or just to spend the night, and I was very fond of him. Whom else except my father and mother should I have loved? I had a teacher, a passionate man, a destroyer of souls, and this other was a kind and genial creature who made you feel happy if he only looked at you. The columnies did their work, and they took away his certificate. My teacher must have had a hand in it, because he heard of it before anyone. And the next time the sheuchet came he exclaimed, a postate, and took him by the scruff of his coat and bundled him out of the house. It cut me to the heart like a knife. Only I was frightened to death of the teacher and never stirred. But a little later when the teacher was looking away, I escaped, and began to run after the sheuchet across the road, which, not far from the house, lost itself in a wood that stretched all the way to Vilna. What exactly I proposed to do to help him, I don't know, but something drove me after the poor sheuchet. I wanted to say goodbye to him, to have one more look into his nice, kindly eyes. But I ran, and ran, and hurt my feet against the stones in the road, and saw no one. I went to the right, down into the wood, thinking I would rest a little on the soft earth of the wood. I was about to sit down when I heard a voice. It sounded like his voice farther on in the wood, half speaking and half singing. I went softly towards the voice, and saw him some way off, where he stood swaying to and fro under a tree. I went up to him. He was reciting the shihashireem, the song of songs. I look closer, and see that the tree under which he stands is different from the other trees. The others are still bare of leaves, and this one is green, and in full leaf it shines like the sun, and stretches its flowery branches over the sheuchet's head like a tent. And a quantity of birds hop among the twigs, and join in singing the song of songs. I am so astonished that I stand there with open mouth and eyes, rooted like the trees. He ends his chant. The tree is extinguished, the little birds are silent, and he turns to me and says affectionately, listen, yudle, yudle is my name. I have a request to make of you. Really? I answer joyfully, and I suppose he wishes me to bring him out some food, and I'm ready to run and bring him our whole sabbath dinner, when he says to me, listen, keep what you saw to yourself. This sobers me, and I promise seriously and faithfully to hold my tongue. Listen again, you are going far away, very far away, and the road is a long road. I wonder however should I come to travel so far, and he goes on to say, they will knock the rabbi's Torah out of your head, and you will forget father and mother, but see you keep your name. You are called yudle, remain a Jew. I am frightened, but cry out from the bottom of my heart, surely, as surely may I live. Then, because my own idea clung to me, I added, don't you want something to eat? And before I finished speaking, he had vanished. The second week after they fell upon us, and led me away as a cantonist, a conscript, to be brought up among the Gentiles, and turned into a soldier. Time passed, and I forgot everything, as he had foretold, they knocked it all out of my head. I served far away, deep in Russia, among snows and terrific frosts, and never set eyes on a Jew. There may have been hidden Jews about, but I knew nothing of them. I knew nothing of Sabbath and festival, nothing of any fast. I forgot everything, but I held fast to my name. I did not change my coin. The more I forgot, the more I was inclined to be quit of all my torments and trials, to make an end of them by agreeing to a Christian name. But whenever the bad thought came into my head, he appeared before me, the same sheuchet, and I heard his voice say to me, keep your name, remain a Jew. And I knew for certain that it was no empty dream, because every time I saw him older and older, his beard and earlocks grayer, his face paler. Only his eyes remained the same kind eyes, and his voice, which sounded like a violin, never altered. Once they flogged me, and he stood by, and wiped the cold sweat off my forehead, and stroked my face, and said softly, don't cry out, we ought to suffer, remain a Jew. And I bore it without a cry, without a moan, as though they had been flogging, not me. Once, during the last year, I had to go as a sentry to a public house behind the town. It was evening, and there was a snowstorm. The wind lifted patches of snow and ground them to needles, rubbed them to dust, and this snow dust and these snow needles were whirled through the air, flew into one's face and pricked. You couldn't keep an eye open, and you couldn't draw your breath. Suddenly I saw some people walking past me, not far away, and one of them said in Yiddish, this is the first night of Passover. Whether it was a voice from God, or whether some people really passed me, to this day I don't know, but the words fell upon my heart like lead, and I had hardly reached the tavern and began to walk up and down when a longing came over me, a sort of heartache that is not to be described. I wanted to recite the Haggadah, and not a word of it could I recall, not even the four questions I used to ask my father. I felt, if only I could have recalled one simple word, the rest of it would have followed and risen out of my memory, one after the other, like sleepy birds from beneath the snow. But that one first word is just what I cannot remember. Reboina shalom, Lord of the universe I cried fervently, one word, only one word. As it seems I made my prayer in a happy hour, for avadim hoyinu, for we were slaves, came into my head, just as if it had been thrown down from heaven. I was overjoyed, I was so full of joy that I felt it brimming over, and then the rest all came back to me, and as I paced up and down on my watch with my musket on my shoulder, I recited and sang the Haggadah to the snowy world around. I drew it out of me, word after word, like a chain of golden links, like a string of pearls. Oh, but you won't understand, you couldn't understand, unless you had been taken away there too. The wind, meanwhile, had fallen. The snowstorm had come to an end, and there appeared a clear, twinkling sky and a shining world of diamonds. It was silent all round and ever so wide and ever so white with a sweet, peaceful, endless whiteness. And over this calm, wide whiteness, there suddenly appeared something still whiter and lighter and brighter, wrapped in a robe and a prayer scarf, the prayer scarf over its shoulders, and over the prayer scarf in front a silvery white beard, and above the beard two shining eyes, and above them a sparkling crown, a cap with gold and silver ornaments. And it came nearer and nearer and went past me, but as it passed me it said, It is well. It sounded like a violin, and then the figure vanished, but it was the same eyes, the same voice. I took Shapole on my way home and went to see the old man, for the Rebbe of Shapole was called by the people Der Alter, the Shapole grandfather, and I recognized him again, and he recognized me. End of Section 6. It is well by Isaac Loeb-Paris. Section 7 of Yiddish Tales. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Yiddish Tales translated by Helen Frank and read by Adrian Pretzelis. Section 7. Wents a Proverb by Isaac Loeb-Paris. Drunk all the year round, sober at Purim, is a Jewish proverb, and people ought to know whence it comes. In the days of the famous scholar Rebchaim Wittl, they lived in Zwas, in Palestine, a young man who, not of us be it spoken, had not been married a year before he became a widower. God's ways are not to be understood, such things will happen, but the young man was of the opinion that the world, as far as he was concerned, had come to an end, that as there was one son in heaven, so his wife had been the one woman in the world. So he went and sold all the merchandise in his little shop, and all the furniture of his room, and gave the proceeds to the head of the Zwas Academy, the Rosh Hayashiva, on condition that he should be taken into the Yashiva and fed with the other scholars, and that he should have a room to himself, where he might sit and learn Torah. The Rosh Hayashiva took the money for the academy, and they partitioned off a little room for the young man with some boards in a corner of the attic of the Besameh Deresh, the house of study. They carried in a sack with straw and vessels for washing, and the young man sat himself down to the Talmud. Except on Sabbaths and holidays, when the householders invited him to dinner, he never set eyes on a living creature. Food sufficient for the day and a clean shirt in honour of Sabbaths and festivals were carried up to him by the beadle, and whenever he heard steps on the stair, he used to turn away and stand with his face to the wall till whoever it was had gone out again and shut the door. In a word he became a Polish, an aesthetic, for he lived separate from the world. At first people thought he wouldn't persevere long because he was a lively youth by nature, but as week after week went by and the Polish sat and studied and the tearful voice in which he intoned the Gomorrah was heard in the street half through the night, or else he was seen at the attic window his pale face raised towards the sky. Then they began to believe in him, and they hoped he might in time become a mighty man in Israel and perhaps even a wonder-worker. They said so to the Rebbe Chaim Vito, but he listened, shook his head and replied, God granted may last. Meanwhile a little wonder really happened. The Beatles' little daughter, who used some time to carry up the Polish's food for her father, took it into her head that she must have one look at the Polish. What does she? Takes off her shoes and stockings and carries the food to him barefoot so noiselessly that she heard her own heart beat. The beating of her heart frightened her so much that she fell down half the stairs and was laid up for more than a month in consequence. In her fever she told the whole story and people began to believe in the Polish more firmly than ever and to wait with increasing impatience till he should become famous. They described the occurrence to Rebbe Chaim Vito, and again he shook his head and even sighed and answered, God grant he may be victorious. And when they pressed him for an explanation of these words, Rebbe Chaim answered that as the Polish had left the world not so much for the sake of heaven as on account of his grief for his wife it was to be feared that he would be surely beset and tempted by the other side and God grant he might not stumble and fall and Rebbe Chaim Vito never spoke without good reason. One day the Polish was sitting deep in a book when he heard something tapping the door and fear came over him but as the tapping went on he rose, forgetting to close his book went and opened the door and in walks a turkey. He lets it in for it occurs to him that it would be nice to have a living thing in the room. The turkey walks past him and goes and settles down quietly in a corner and the Polish wonders what this may mean and sits down again to his book. Sitting there he remembers that it is going on for Purim Has someone sent him a turkey out of regard for his study of the Torah? What should he do with the turkey? Should anyone, he reflects, ask him to dinner supposing it were to be a poor man he would send him the turkey on the eve of Purim and then he would satisfy himself with it also. He has not once tasted foul meat since he lost his wife. Thinking thus he smacked his lips and his mouth watered. He threw a glance at the turkey and saw it looking at him in a friendly way as though it had quite understood his intention and was very glad to think it should have the honour of being eaten by a Polish. He could not restrain himself but was continually lifting his eyes from his book to look at the turkey till at last he began to fancy the turkey was smiling at him. This startled him a little but all the same it made him happy to be smiled at by a living creature. The same thing happened at Mincha and Myrev in the middle of the Shimonah Esrae, the 18 benedictions he could not for the life of him help looking round every minute at the turkey who continued to smile and smile. Suddenly it seemed to him he knew that smile well. The Almighty who had taken back his wife had now sent him her smile to comfort him in his loneliness and he began to love the turkey. He thought how much better it would be if a rich man were to invite him at Purim so that the turkey might live and he thought it in a propitious moment as we shall presently see but meantime they brought him as usual a platter of grotes with a piece of bread and he washed his hands and prepared to eat. No sooner however had he taken the bread into his hand and was about to bite into it than the turkey moved out of its corner and began peck peck peck towards the bread by way of asking for some and as though as to say it was hungry too and came and stood before him near the table. The Polish thought he'd better have some I don't want to be unkind to him to tease him and he took the bread and the platter of porridge and set it down on the floor before the turkey who pecked and supped away to its heart's content. The next day the Polish went over to the Rosh Hayashiva and told him how he had come to have a fellow lodger. He used always to leave some porridge over and today he didn't seem to have had enough. The Rosh Hayashiva saw a hungry face before him. He said he would tell this to the rabbi, Chaim Vittel so that he might pray and the evil spirit if such indeed it was might depart. Meantime he would give orders for two pieces of bread and two plates of porridge to be taken up to the attic so that there should be enough for both the Polish and the turkey. Reb Chaim Vittel however to whom the story was told in the name of the Rosh Hayashiva shook his head and declared with a deep sigh that this was only the beginning. Meanwhile the Polish received a double portion and was satisfied and the turkey was satisfied too. The turkey even grew fat and in a couple of weeks or so the Polish had become so much attached to the turkey that he prayed every day to be invited for pouring by a rich man so that he might not be tempted to destroy it. And as we intimated that temptation anyhow was spared him for he was invited to dinner by one of the principal householders in the place and there was not only turkey but every kind of tasty dish and wine fit for a king and the best pouring players came to entertain the rich man, his family and the guests who had come to him after their feast at home and our Polish gave himself up to enjoyment and ate and drank. Perhaps he even drank rather more than he ate for the wine was sweet and grateful to the taste and the warmth of it made its way into every limb. Then suddenly a change came over him. The Ahasuerus Esther play had begun Vashti will not do the king's pleasure and come into the banquet as God made her. Esther soon finds favour in her stead she is given over to Hegei the keeper of the women to be purified six months with oil of myrrh and six months with other sweet perfumes and our Polish grew hot all over and it was dark before his eyes then red streaks flew across his field of vision like tongues of fire and he was overcome by a strange wild longing to be back at home in the attic of the Besame Drash. A longing for his own little room his quiet corner a longing for the turkey and he couldn't bear it and even before they had said grace he jumped up and ran away home. He enters his room looks into the corner habitually occupied by the turkey and stands amazed. The turkey has turned into a woman. A most beautiful woman such as the world never saw and he began to tremble all over and she comes up to him and takes him around the neck with her warm white naked arms and the porous trembles more and more and begs not here, not here it is a holy place there are holy books lying about then she whispers into his ear that she is the Queen of Sheba that she lives not far from the Besame Drash by the river among the tall reeds in a palace of crystal given to her by King Solomon and she draws him along she wants him to go with her to her palace and he hesitates and resists and he goes next day there was no turkey and no porous either they went to Reb Chaim Vitl who told them to look for him along the bank of the river and they found him in a swamp among the tall reeds more dead than alive they rescued him and brought him round but from that day he took to drink and Reb Chaim Vitl said it all came from his great longing for the Queen of Sheba that when he drank he saw her and they were to let him drink only not at Purim because at that time she would have great power over him hence the proverb drunk all the year round sober at Purim End of section 7 Section 8 of Yiddish Tales is in the public domain Yiddish Tales translated by Helena Frank and read by Adrian Pretzelis Section 8 Mordecai Specter Born 1859 in Yuman Government of Kiev, Little Russia Education Hasidic Entered business in 1878 wrote First Sketch A Roman on Libre in 1882 contributor to Zed and Baum's Yiddisher Volksblatt 1884 to 1887 founded in 1888 and edited their house Freund at Warsaw editor of Warsaw Daily Papers and at present 1912 Writer of novels historical romances and sketches in Yiddish contributor to numerous periodicals compiled a volume of more than 2,000 Jewish proverbs An original strike by Mordecai Specter I was invited to a wedding not a wedding at which ladies wore low dress and scattered powder as they walked and the men were in coats and white gloves and had waxed moustaches not a wedding where you ate of dishes without landish names according to a printed card and drank wine dating according to the label from the reign of King Sobieski out of bottles dingy with the dust of yesterday no, but a Jewish wedding where the men women and girls wore the Sabbath and holiday garments in which they went to shawl a wedding where you wet your appetite with sweet cakes and apple tart and sit down to Sabbath fish with fresh rolls, golden a York golden soup stuffed foul and roast duck and the wine is in large clear white bottles a wedding with a calling to the reading of the Torah of the bridegroom a party on the Sabbath a good night play performed by the musicians and a bridegroom's dinner in his native town with a table spread for the poor Reb Yitzchok Etzik Berkova made a feast for the poor at the wedding of each of his children and now on the occasion of the marriage of his youngest daughter he had invited all the poor of the little town Lipovitz to his village home where he had spent all his life. It is the day of the ceremony under the chuppah, the canopy two o'clock in the afternoon and the poor sent for early in the morning by a messenger with the three great wagons are not there. Lipovitz is not more than five bursts away. What can have happened? The parents of the bridal couple and the assembled guests wait to the ceremony. At last the messenger comes riding on a horse unharnessed from his vehicle but no poor. Why have you come back alone? Demands Reb Yitzchok Etzik They won't come replied the messenger What do you mean by they won't come? asked everyone in surprise. They say that unless they are given a kerbala piece they won't come to the wedding. All laugh and the messenger goes on. There was a wedding with a dinner to the poor in Lipovitz today too and they have eaten and drunk all they can and now they've gone on strike and declare that unless they are promised a kerbala head they won't move from the spot. The strike leaders are the crooked man with two crutches Mukabal the long Phytl the stammerer and Yenkel Fonfatch the others would perhaps have come but these won't let them so I don't know what to do I argued a whole hour and got nothing by it so then I unharnessed a horse and came at full speed to know what was to be done We of the company could not stop laughing but Reb Yitzchok Etzik was very angry Well are you bargained with them? Won't they come for less? He asked the messenger Yes I bargained and they won't take a copack less Have their prices gone up so high as all that? exclaimed Reb Yitzchok Etzik with a satirical laugh Why did you leave the wagons? We shall do without the tramps that's all How could I tell? I didn't know what to do I was afraid you would be displeased now I'll go and fetch the wagons back Wait don't be in such a hurry take time Reb Yitzchok Etzik began consulting with the company and with himself What an idea who ever heard of such a thing poor people telling me what to do haggling with me over my wanting to give them a good dinner at a nice present each they must be paid in the rubles otherwise it's no bargain ha ha for two goldens each it's not worth their while it cost them too much to stock the ware 30 copacks wouldn't pay them I like their impertinence mischief take them I shall do without them let the musicians play where is the beetle they can begin putting the veil on the bride but directly afterwards he waved his hands wait a little longer it is still early why should it happen to me why should my pleasure be spoiled now I've got to marry my youngest daughter without a dinner to the poor I would have given them half a ruble each it's not the money I mind but fancy bargaining with me well there I have done my part I'm sure they're not wanted afterwards they'll be sorry they don't get a wedding like this every day we shall do without them well can they put the veil on the bride the beetle came and inquired yes they can no tell them to wait a little longer nearly all the guests who were tired of waiting cried out that the tramps could very well be missed but Reb Yitzchok 86 faced suddenly assumed another expression the anger vanished and he turned to me and a couple of other friends and asked if we would drive to the town and parley with the revolted arms gatherers he has no brains one can't depend upon him he said referring to the messenger a horse was harnessed to a conveyance and we drove off followed by the mounted messenger a revolt a strike of arms gatherers how do you like that we asked one another all the way we had heard of workmen striking refusing to work except for a higher wage and so forth but a strike of paupers paupers insisting on larger arms to pay for eating a free dinner such a thing had never been known in twenty minutes time we drove into Lipovitz in the marketplace in the centre of the town stood the three great peasant wagons furnished with fresh straw the small horses were standing unharnessed eating out of their nosebags round the wagons were a hundred poor folk some dumb others lame the greater part blind and half the town's urchins with as many men all of them were shouting and making a commotion the crooked one sat on a wagon and banged it with his crutches long mcabale with a red plaster on his neck stood beside him these two leaders of the revolt were addressing the people the meek of the earth ha ha exclaimed long mcabale as he caught sight of us and the messenger they have come to beg our acceptance to beg our acceptance shouted the crooked one and banged his crutch why won't you come to the wedding to the dinner we inquired everyone will be given alms how much they asked all together we don't know but you will take what they offer will they give it to us in goblech in rubles because if not we don't go there will be a hole in the sky if you don't go cried some of the urchins present the alms gatherers threw themselves on the urchins with their sticks and there was a bit of a row mcabale the long standing on the cart drew himself to his full height and began to shout hush hush hush quiet you crazy cripples one can't hear oneself speak let us hear what those have to say who are worth listening to and he turned to us with the words you must know, dear Jews that unless they distribute goblech among us we shall not budge never you fear rab yitzok etzik won't marry his youngest daughter without us and where is he to get others of us now to send to lunits would cost him more in conveyances and he would have to put off the marriage what do they suppose that because we are poor people they can do what they please with us and a new striker hitched himself up by the wheel blind of one eye and with a tied up jaw no one can oblige us to go even the chief of police and the governor cannot force us it's either goblech or we stay where we are came from Faitl the stammerer Nibbleck!" put in Yankle Fonfatch, speaking through his small nose. No! more! called out a couple of merry paupers. Kablech! Kablech! shouted the rest in concert. And through their shouting and their speeches sounded such a note of anger and of triumph, it seemed as though they were pouring out all the bitterness of soul collected in the course of their sad and luckless lives. They had always kept silence, had had to keep silence, had to swallow the insults offered them along with farthings, and the dry bread, and the scraped bones. And this was the first time that they had been able to retaliate, the first time they had known how it felt to be entreated by the fortunate in all things, and they were determined to use their opportunity of asserting themselves to the full to take their revenge. In the word Kablech lay the whole sting of their resentment. And while we talked in reasoned with them came a second messenger from Reb Yitzochetik to say that the paupers were to come at once, and they would be given a ruble each. There was great noise and scrambling. The three wagons filled with arms gatherers, one crying out, oh, my bad hand, another, oh, my foot, and a third, oh, my poor bones. The merry ones made antics and sang in their places while the horses were put in, and the processions started at a cheerful trot. The urchins gave a great hurrah and threw little stones after it with squeals and whistles. The poor folks must have fancied they were being pelted with flowers and sent off with songs. They looked so happy in the consciousness of their victory. For the first and perhaps the last time in their lives they had spoken out and got their own way. After the chuppah and the golden urch, the canopy and the chicken soup that is, at supper tables were spread for the friends of the family and separate ones for the arms-gatherers. Reb Yitzochetik and members of his own household served the poor with their own hands, pressing them to eat and drink. Look, I am to you, Reb Yitzochetik, may you have a pleasure in your children and be a great man, a great rich man, desired the poor. Long life, long life to all of you brethren, drink in health, God help all Israel and you among them, replied Reb Yitzochetik. After supper the band played and the arms-gatherers with Reb Yitzochetik danced merrily in a ring round the bridegroom. Then who was so happy as Reb Yitzochetik? He danced in the ring, the silk skirts of his long coat flapped and flew like eagles' wings. Tears of joy fell from his shining eyes, and his spirits rose to the seventh heaven. He laughed and cried like a child and exchanged embraces with the arms-gatherers. Brothers, he exclaimed as he danced, let us be merri, let us be Jews. Musicians, give us something cheerful, something gayer, lively, and louder. This is what you call a Jewish wedding. This is how a Jew makes merri. So the guests and the arms-gatherers clapped their hands in time to the music. Yes, dear readers, it was what I call a Jewish wedding. End of section eight. Section nine of Yiddish Tales. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Yiddish Tales translated by Helena Frank and read by Adrian Pretzelis. Section nine, A Gloomy Wedding by Mordechai Specter. They handed Gittle a letter that had come by post. She put on her spectacles, sat down by the window, and began to read. She read, and her face began to shine, and the wrinkled skin took on a little colour. It was plain that what she read delighted her beyond measure. She devoured the words, caught her breath, and wept aloud in the fullness of her joy. At last, at last, blessed be his dear name, who I am not worthy to mention. I do not know, Gotinu, how to thank you for the mercy thou hast shown me. Baila, where is Baila? Where is Yossal? Children, come, make haste, and wish me joy. A great joy has befallen us. Send for Avremla, tell him to come with Latka and all the children. Thus, Gittle, while she read the letter, never ceased calling everyone into the room, never ceased reading and calling, calling and reading, and devouring the words as she read. Every soul who happened to be at home came running. Good luck to you, good luck to all of us. Moyshala has become engaged in Warsaw, and invites us all to the wedding, Gittle explained. There, read the letter. Riboyna shall oil him. May it be in a propitious hour. May we all have comfort in one another. May we hear nothing but good news of one another, and of all Israel. Read it, read it, children. He writes that he has a very beautiful bride, well favoured, with a large dowry. Riboyna shall oil him. I am not worthy of the mercy thou hast shown me. Repeated Gittle over and over, as she paced the room with uplifted hands, while her daughter Baila took up the letter in her turn. The children and everyone in the house, including the maid from the kitchen, with rolled-up sleeves and wet hands, encircled Baila, as she read aloud. Read louder, Belechka, so that I can hear, so that we can all hear. Begged Gittle, and there were tears of happiness in her eyes. The children jumped for joy to see Grandmother so happy. The word wedding, which Baila read out of the letter, contained a promise of all delightful things. Musicians, pancakes, new frocks and suits, and they could not keep themselves from dancing. The maid, too, was heartily pleased. She kept singing out, ìEy, what a bride, beautiful as gold!î and did not know what to be doing next. Should she go and finish cooking the dinner? Should she pull down her sleeves and make holiday? The hiss of a pot boiling over in the kitchen interrupted the letter-reading, and she was requested to go and attend to it forthwith. ìThe bride sends out a separate greeting, long life to her, may she live when my bones are dust. Let us go to the provisor, he shall read it. It is written in French.î The provisor, the apothecaryís foreman, who lived in the same house, said the brideís letter was not written in French but in Polish. That she called Gittel her second mother, that she loved her son Moses as her life, that he was her world, that she held herself to be the most fortunate of girls, since God had given her Moses, that Gittel, once more, was her second mother, and that she felt like a beautiful daughter towards her, and hoped that Gittel would love her as her own child. The bride declared further that she kissed her new sister Baila a thousand times, together with Zlatka and their husbands and children, and she signed herself ìYour Forever Devoted and Loving Daughter Reginaî. An hour later all Gittelís children were assembled round her, her eldest son Avremo with his wife Zlatka and her little ones, Bailaís husband and her son-in-law Yossel, all read the letter with eager curiosity. Brandy and spice cakes were placed on the table, wine was sent for, they drank healths, wished each other joy, and began to talk of going to the wedding. Gittel, very tired with what she had gone through this day, went to lie down for a while to rest her head, which was all in a whirl, but the others remained sitting at the table, and never stopped talking of Moishe. ìI can imagine the sort of engagement Moishe has made, begging his pardon, remarked the daughter-in-law, and wiped her pale lips. I should think so. A man whoís been a bachelor up to thirty, itís easy to fancy the sort of bride and the sort of family she has, if they accepted Moishe as a suitor, agreed the daughter. ìGod-helping, this ought to make a man of him. Side Moisheís elder brother, heís cost us trouble and worry enough. ìItís your fault,î Yossel told him. ìIf Iíd been his elder brother, he would have turned out differently. I should have directed him like a father, and taken him well in hand. You think so, but when God wishes to punish a man through his own child going astray, nothing is of any use. These are not the old times, when young people feared the Rebbe and respected their elders. Nowadays the world is topsy-turvy, and no sooner has a boy outgrown his childhood than he does what he pleases, and parents are nowhere. What have I left undone to make something out of him so that he should be a credit to his family? Then he was left an orphan very early. Perhaps he would have abate his father. May he enter a lightsome paradise. For a brother and his mother he paid them as little attention as last yearís snow. And if you said anything to him he answered rudely, neither coaxing nor scolding was any good. Now, please God, heíll make a fresh start, and give up his antics before itís too late. His poor mother. Sheís had enough trouble on his account, as we all know. Baila let fall a tear, and said, ìIf our father may he be our kind advocate were alive, Moishala would never have made an engagement like this. Who knows what sort of connections they will be. I can see them begging his pardon from here.î Is he likely to have asked anyoneís advice? He always had a will of his own, did what he wanted to do, never asked his mother or his sister or his brother beforehand. Now heís a bridegroom at thirty if heís a day, and we are all after the wedding, are we really? And we shall soon on be running to see the fine sight such as never was seen before. We are no such fools. He thinks himself the clever one now, so he wants us to be at the wedding. Only says it out of politeness. ìWe must go all the same, said Avremo. Go and welcome if you want. You wonít catch me there, answered his sister.î There was a deal more discussion and disputing about not going to the wedding and only congratulating by telegram for good manís sake. Since he had asked no oneís advice and engaged himself without them, let him get married without them too. Gittle, up in her bedroom, could not so soon compose herself after the events of the day. What she had experienced was no trifle. Moishala engaged to be married. She had been through so much on his account in the course of her life. She had loved him, her youngest born, so dearly. He was such a beautiful child, that the light of his countenance dazzled you and bright as the day, so that people opened ears and mouth to hear him talk, and God and men alike envied her the possession of such a boy. ìI counted on making a match for him as I did with Avremo before him. He was offered the best connections with the families of the greatest rabbis. But no, no, he wanted to go on studying. ìStudy here, study there, said I. Sixteen years old and a bachelor. If you want to study, canít you study at your father-in-laws, eating cost? There are books in plenty, thank heaven, of your fathers. No, he wanted to go and study elsewhere, asked no bodyís advice, and made off for two months. I never had a line. I nearly went out of my mind. Then suddenly there came a letter begging my pardon for not having said goodbye, and would I forgive him and send him some money, because he had nothing to eat? ìIt tore my heart to think of my Moishella, who used to make me happy whenever he enjoyed a meal, should hunger. I sent him some money. I went on sending him money for three years. After that he stopped asking for it. I begged him to come home. He made no reply. He made no reply. I donít wish to quarrel with a venereal. My sister and a husband, he wrote later. We cannot live together in peace. Why? I donít know. Then for a time he left off writing altogether, and the messages we got for him sounded very sad. Now he was in Kiev, now in Odessa, now in Charkkov, and they told us he was living like any Gentile had not the look of a Jew at all. Some said he was living with a Gentile woman, a Countess, and would never marry in his life. Five years ago he had suddenly appeared at home to see his mother, as he said. Gittle did not recognise him. He was so changed. The rest found him quite the stranger. He had a Goyeshe shaven face with a twisted moustache, and was got up like a rich Gentile with a purse full of banknotes. His family were ashamed to walk abroad with him. Gittle never ceased weeping and imploring him to give up the Countess. Remain a Jew, stay with his mother, and she, with Godís help, would make an excellent match for him, if he would only alter his appearance and ways just a little. Moishila solemnly assured his mother that he was a Jew, that there was no Countess, but that he wouldnít remain home for a million rubles. First, because he had business elsewhere, and secondly he had no fancy for his native town, there was nothing there for him to do, and to dispute with his brother and sister about religious piety was not worth his while. So Moishila departed, and Gittle wept, wondering why he was different from the other children, seeing that they all had the same mother, and she had lived and suffered for all alike. Why would he not stay with her at home? What would he have wanted for there? God be praised, not to sin with her tongue, thanks to God first, and then to him, a lights and paradise be his, they were provided for, with a house and a few thousand rubles, all that was necessary for their comfort, and a little ready money besides. The house alone, not to sin with her tongue, would bring in enough to make a living. Other people envious, but it doesnít happen to please him, and he goes wandering about the world without a wife and without a home, a man twenty and odd years old and without a home. The rest of the family were secretly well content to be free of such a poor creature. The further off the better, the shame is less. A letter from him came very seldom after this, and for the last two years he had dropped out altogether. Nobody was surprised, for everyone was convinced that Moishela would never come to anything. Some told that he was in prison, others knew that he had gone abroad and was being pursued, others that he had hung himself because he was tired of life and that before his death he had repented of all his sins only it was too late. His relations heard all these reports and were careful to keep them from his mother because they were not sure that the bad news was true. Gittle bore the pain at her heart in silence, weeping at times over her Moishela, who had got into bad ways, and now suddenly this precious letter with its precious news, her Moishela is about to marry and invite them to the wedding. Thus Gittle, lying in bed in her own room, recalled everything she had suffered through her undutiful son, only now, now everything was forgotten and forgiven, and her mother's heart was full of love for her Moishela, just as in the days when he told about her to apron and pleased his mother and everyone else. All her thoughts were now taken up with getting ready to attend the wedding. The time was so short, there were only three weeks left. When her other children were married Gittle began her preparations three months ahead and now there were only three weeks. Next day she took out her watered silk dress with the green satin flowers and hung it out to air, examined it, lest there should be a hook missing. After that she polished her long earrings with chalk, her pearls, her rings and all her other ornaments, and bought a new yellow silk kerchief for her head with a large flowery pattern in a lighter shade. A week before the journey to Warsaw they baked spice cakes, pancakes and almond rolls to take with her, from the bridegroom's side, and ordered a chitle, a wig, for the bride. When her eldest son was married Gittle had also given the bride silver candlesticks for Friday evenings and presented her with a chitle for the bedeckon, the veiling ceremony. And before she left Gittle went to her husband's grave and asked him to be present at the wedding as a good advocate for the newly married pair. Gittle started for Warsaw in grand style and cheerful and happy as befits a mother going to the wedding of her favourite son. All those who accompanied her to the station declared that she looked younger and prettier by twenty years and made a beautiful bridegroom's mother. Besides wedding presents for the bride, Gittle took with her her money for wedding expenses so that she might play her part with becoming lavishness, and people should not think her moisture came, bless and preserve us, of a low-born family, to show that he was none so forlorn, but that he had, God be praised, and may it be for a hundred and twenty years to come, a mother and a sister and brothers, and came of a well-to-do family. She would show them that she could be as fine a bridegroom's mother as anyone, even, thank God, in Warsaw. Moisture was her last child and she grudged him nothing. Were he alive? May he be a good intercessor? He would certainly have graced the wedding better and spent more money, but she would spare nothing to make a good figure on the occasion. She would treat every connection of the bride to a special dance tune, give the musicians a whole five ruble piece for their performance of the vivat, and two dry alech for the kosher tanz, besides something for the rav, the chasan, the canter and the beadle, and arms for the poor. What should she say for she has no more children to marry off? Blessed be his dear name who granted her life to see her Moisture as wedding. Thus happily did Gittel start for Warsaw. One carriage after another drove up to the wedding reception room in De Lugastreet, Warsaw. Ladies and their daughters all in evening dress and smartly attired gentlemen alighted and went in. The room was full. The band played. Ladies and gentlemen were dancing and those who were not talked of the bride and bridegroom and said how fortunate they considered Regina to have secured such a presentable young man, lively, educated and intelligent, with quite a fortune which he had made himself and a good business. Ten thousand rubles dowry with the perfection of a husband was a rare thing nowadays when a poor professional man, a little doctor without practice, asked fifteen thousand. It was true they said that Regina was a pretty girl and a credit to her parents, but how many pretty bright girls had more money than Regina and sat waiting. It was above all the mothers of the young ladies present who talked low in this way among themselves. The bride sat on a chair at the end of the room. Ladies and young girls on either side of her. Gittel, the bridegroom's mother in her watered silk dress, with the large green sat in flowers, was seated between two ladies with dresses cut so low that Gittel could not bear to look at them. Women with husbands and children daring to show themselves like that at a wedding. Then she could not endure the odour of their bare skin, the powder, pomade and perfumes with which they were smeared, sprinkled and wetted even to their hair. All these strange smells tickled Gittel's nose and went to her head like a fume. She sat between the two ladies feeling cramped and shut in, unable to stir and would gladly have gone away, only wither. Where should she, the bridegroom's mother be sitting, if not near the bride at the upper end of the room? But all the ladies sitting there were half naked. Should she sit near the door? That would never do. And Gittel remained sitting in great embarrassment between the two women and looked on at the reception and saw nothing but a room full of decollete, ladies and girls. Gittel felt more and more uncomfortable. It made her quite faint to look at them. One can get over the girls, young things, because a girl has to please. Although no Jewish daughter ought to show herself to everyone like that. But what do you to do with present-day children, especially in a decollete city like Warsaw? But young women and women who have husbands and children and no need, thank God, to please anyone. How are they not ashamed before God and other people and their own children to come to a wedding half naked, like loose girls in a public house? Jewish daughters who ought not to be seen uncovered by the four walls of their room, to come like that to a wedding, to a Jewish wedding. I'd like to spit at this newfangled word. May God not punish me for these words. It is enough to make one faint to see such a display among Jews. After the ceremony under the Chupa, which was erected in the centre of the room, the company sat down to the table, and Gittel was, again seated at the top, between the two women before mentioned, whose perfumes went to her head. She felt so queer and so ill at ease that she could not partake of the dinner. Her mouth seemed locked, and the tears came in her eyes. When they rose from table, Gittel sought out a place removed from the upper end, and sat down in a window. But presently the bride's mother, also in decollete, caught sight of her, and went and took her by the hand. Why are you sitting here, mechanesta, mother-in-law? Why are you not at the top? I wanted to rest myself a little. Oh, no, no, come and sit here, said the lady, led her away by force, and seated her between the two ladies with the perfumes. Long, long did she sit, feeling more and more sick and dizzy. If only she could have poured out her heart to some person, if she could have exchanged a single word with anybody during the whole evening, it would have been a relief. But there was no one to speak to. The music played, there was dancing, but Gittel could see nothing. She felt an oppression at her heart, and became covered with perspiration. Her head grew heavy, and she fell from her chair. The bridegroom's mother has fainted, was the outcry throughout the room. Water, water! They fetched water, discovered a doctor among the guests, and he led Gittel into another room, and soon brought her round. The bride, the bridegroom, the bride's mother, and two ladies ran in. What can have caused it? Lie down. How do you feel now? Perhaps you would like a sip of lemonade? They all asked. Thank you. I want nothing. I feel better already. Leave me alone for a while. I shall soon recover myself, and be all right. So Gittel was left alone, and she breathed more easily. Her head stopped aching. She felt like one let out of prison. Only there was a pain at her heart. The tears which had choked her all day now began to flow, and she wept abundantly. The music never ceased playing. She heard the sound of the dancers' feet, and the directions of the master of ceremonies. The floor shook. Gittel wept, and tried with all her might to keep from sobbing, so that people should not hear and come in and disturb her. She had not wept so since the death of her husband, and this was the wedding of her favourite son. By degrees she ceased to weep altogether, dried her eyes, and sat quietly talking to herself of the many things that passed through her head. Better that he, may he enter a lightsome paradise, should have died than live to see what I have seen, and the dear delight which I have had at the wedding of my youngest child. Better that I myself should not have lived to see his marriage canopy. Khooper indeed, four sticks stuck up in the middle of the room to make fun with, for people to play at being married, like monkeys. Then a table, no chevrobrachos, no seven blessings, nor the Jewish word, nor the Jewish face, no minion to be seen. Only shaven Gentiles upon Gentiles, a room full of naked women and girls that make you sick to look at them. Moe Shillow had better have married a poor orphan. I shouldn't have been half so ashamed or half so unhappy. Gittel called to mind the sort of a bridegroom's mother she had been at the marriage of her eldest son, and the satisfaction she had felt. Four hundred women had accompanied her to the shul, when Evremela was called to the reading of the law as a bridegroom, and they had scattered nuts, almonds and raisins down upon him as he walked. Then the party before the wedding, and the ceremony of the Khooper, and the procession with the bride and bridegroom to the shul, the merry homecoming, the golden oyoch, the golden soup, the bridegroom brought at supper time to the sound of the music, the canter and his choir who sang while they sat at table, the chevrobrachos, the vivat played for each one separately, the kosher tans, the dance around the bridegroom, and the whole time it had been Gittel here and Gittel there. Good luck to you, Gittel. May you be happy in the young couple in all your other children, and live to dance at the wedding of your youngest. It was a delight, and no mistake. Where is Gittel? She hears them cry. The uncle, the aunt, a cousin who paid for a dance for the mechutenesta on the bridegroom's side. Play musicians all. The company make way for her, and she dances with the uncle, the aunt, and the cousin, and all the rest clap their hands. She is tired with dancing, but still they call Gittel. An old friend sings a merry song in her honour. Play musicians all. And Gittel dances on. The company clap their hands, and wish her all that is good. And she is penetrated with genuine happiness, and the joy of the occasion. Then when the guests begin to depart, and the mothers of the bridegroom and the bride whisper together about the forthcoming bedeckon, the veiling ceremony, she sees the bride in her wig, already a wife, her daughter-in-law, her jam pancakes, and mandelboy it. Armoured rolls are praised by all. And what cakes are left over from the bedeckon are either snatched one by one, or else they are seized wholesale by the young people standing round the table so that she should not see. And they laugh and tease her. That is the way to become a mother-in-law. And here, of course, the whole of the pancakes, and sweet cakes, and almond rolls, which she brought, have never so much as been unpacked, and are to be thrown away, or taken home again, as you please. A shame. No one came to her for cakes. The week, too, may be thrown away, or carried back. Moishilla told her it was not required. It wouldn't quite do. The bride accepted the silver candlesticks with embarrassment, as though Gittle had done something to make her feel awkward, and some girls who were standing by smiled. Regina has been given candlesticks for the candle-blessing on Fridays. The bridal couple with the girl's parents came in to ask how she felt, and interrupted the current of her thoughts. We shall drive home now. People are leaving, they said. The wedding is over, they told her. Everything in life comes to a speedy end. Gittle remembered that when Vremo was married, the festivities had lasted a whole week till over the second cheerful Sabbath, when the bride, the new daughter-in-law, was led to the shawl. The day after the wedding, Gittle drove home. Sad, broken in spirit, as people return from the cemetery where they have buried a child, where they have laid a fragment of their own heart, of their own life under the earth. Driving home in the carriage, she consoled herself, with this at least. A good thing that Baylor and Zlatka of Vremel and Yossel would not hear. The shame will be less. There will be less talk. Nobody will know what I am suffering. Gittle arrived, the picture of Gloom. When she left for the wedding, she had looked suddenly 20 years younger, and now she looked 20 years older than before. End of Section 9 A Gloomy Wedding by Mordechai Specter Section 10 of Yiddish Tales This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Yiddish Tales translated by Helena Frank and read by Adrian Pretzelis. Section 10 Poverty by Mordechai Specter I was living in Mezquez at the time, and Seinwell Bookbinder lived there too, but heaven only knows where he is now. Even then his continual pallor augured no long residence in Mezquez, and he was a Yadishleva Jew, with a wife and six small children, and he lived by binding books. Who knows what has become of him? But that is not the question. I only want to prove that Seinwell was a great liar. If he is already in the other world, may he forgive me, and not be very angry with me if he is still living in Mezquez. He was an orthodox and pious Jew, but when you gave him a book to bind, he never kept his word. When he took a book, and even the whole of his pay in advance, he would swear by beard and earlocks, by wife and children, and by the Mashiach that he would bring it back to you by Sabbath. But you had to be at him for weeks before the work was finished and sent in. Once, on a certain Friday, I remembered that next day, Sabbath, I should have a few hours to myself for reading. A fortnight before, I had given Seinwell a new book to bind for me. It was just a question of whether or not he would return it in time, so I set out for his home with the intention of bringing back the book, finished or not. I had paid him his twenty Kopecks in advance, so what excuses could he possibly make? Once, for all, I would give him a bit of my mind and take away the work unfinished. It will be a lesson for him for the next time. Thus it was, walking along and deciding on what I should say to Seinwell, that I turned into the street to which I had been directed. Once in the said street, I had no need to ask questions, for I was at once shown a little low house roofed with moulded slate. I stooped a little by way of precaution and entered Seinwell's house, which consisted of a large kitchen. Here he lived with his wife and children, and here he worked. In the great stove that took up one third of the kitchen, there was a cheerful crackling, as in every Jewish home on a Friday. In the fore part of the oven, on either hand, stood a variety of pots and pipkins and gossiped together in their several tones. An elder child stood beside them, holding a wooden spoon, with which she stirred or skimmed as the case required. Seinwell's wife, very much occupied, stood by the one forepost bed, which was spread with a clean white sheet, and on which she had laid down various kinds of cakes, of unbaked dough, in honour of Sabbath. Beside her stood a child, its little face red with crying, and hindered her in her work. Seinwell, take Katskala away! How can I get on with the cakes? Don't you know it's Friday? She kept calling out, and Seinwell, sitting at his work beside a large table covered with books, repeated every time like an echo, Katskala leave your mother alone! And Katskala, for all the notice he took, might have been deaf as the bed post. The minute Seinwell saw me, he ran to meet me in a shamed-faced way, like a sinner caught in the act. And before I was able to say a word, that is, tell him angrily and with decision, that he must give me my book, finished or not, never mind about the twenty-copex and so on, and thus revenge myself on him, he began to answer, and he showed me that the book was done. It was already in the press, and there only remained a lettering to be done on the back. Just a few minutes more, and he would bring it to my house. No, I will wait and take it myself, I said, rather vexed. Besides, I knew that to stamp a few letters on a book cover could not take more than a few minutes and most. Well, if you are so good as to wait, it will not take long. There is a fire in the oven, I've only just got to heat the screw. And so, saying, he paced a chair for me, dusted it with the flap of his coat, and I sat down to wait. Seinwall really took my book out of the press, quite finished, except for the lettering on the cover, and began to hurry. Now he is by the oven, from the oven to the corner, and once more to the oven, and back to the corner, and so on ten times over, saying to me every time, there, directly, directly in another minute, and back once more across the room. So it went on for about twenty minutes, and I began to take quite an interest in this running of his from one place to another with empty hands, and doing nothing but repeat, directly, directly, this minute. Most of all, I wonder why he keeps on looking into the corner. He never takes his eyes off that corner. What is he looking for? What does he expect to see there? I watch his face growing sadder. He must be suffering from something or other, and all the while he talks to himself, directly, directly, in a little minute. He turns to me. I must ask you to wait a little longer. It will be very soon now, in another minute's time. Just because we want it so badly, you'd think she'd rather burst. He said and went back to the corner, stooped and looked into it. What are you looking for there every minute? I asked him. Nothing but directly take my advice. Why should you sit there waiting? I will bring the book to you myself. When no one wants her to, she won't. All right, it's Friday, so I need not hurry. Why should you have the trouble, as I am already here? I reply, and I ask him, who is the she who won't? You see, my wife, who is making cakes, is kept waiting by her too, and I, with the lettering to do on the book, can also wait. But what are you waiting for? You see, if the cakes are to take on a nice glaze while baking, they must be brushed over with a yoke. Well, and what has that to do with stamping the letters on the cover of the book? What does that do with it? Don't you know that the glaze gold which is used for the letters will not stick to the cover without some white of egg? Yes, I have seen them smearing the cover with white of egg before putting on the letters. Then what? How what? That is why we are waiting for the egg. So you have sent out to buy an egg? No, but it will be there directly. He points out to me the corner which he has been running to to look into the whole time, and there on the ground I see an overturned sieve, and under the sieve a hen turning round and round and cackling. As if she'd rather burst, continued sign will, just because we wanted so badly, she won't lay. She lays an egg for me nearly every time, and now just as if she'd rather burst, he said, and began to scratch his head. The hen went on turning round and round like a prisoner in a dungeon and cackled louder than ever. To tell the truth I had inferred at once that sign will was persuaded I should wait for my book till the hen had laid an egg, and as I watched a sign will's wife, and saw with what anxiety she waited for the hen to lay, I knew that I was right, that sign will was indeed so persuaded. For his wife called to him, ask the young man for a co-pack, and send the child to buy an egg in the market. The cakes are getting cold. The young man owes me nothing. A few weeks ago he paid me for the whole job. There is no one to borrow from, no one will lend me anything. I owe money all around. My very hair is not my own. When sign will had answered his wife, he took another peep into the corner and said, she will not keep us waiting much longer now. She can't cackle forever. Another two minutes. But the hen went on puffing out her feathers, pecking and cackling for a good deal more than two minutes. It seemed as if she could not bear to see her master and mistress in trouble, as if she really wanted to do them a kindness by laying an egg. But no egg appeared. I lent sign will two or three co-packs, which he was to pay me back in work, because sign will has never once asked for or accepted charity, and the child was sent to the market. A few minutes later, when the child had come back with an egg, sign will's wife had the glistening Sabbath cakes on a shovel and was placing them gaily in the oven. My book was finished and the unfortunate hen, released at last from her prison, the sieve, ceased to cackle and to ruffle out her plumage. End of Poverty by Mordechai Specter. Section 11 of Yiddish Tales. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Yiddish Tales translated by Helena Frank and read by Adrian Pretzelis. Section 11. Shalom Lechem. Pen name of Shalom Rabinowitz. Born 1859 in Pereslav, government of Poltava, Little Russia. Government rabbi at 21 in Lubny, near his native place. Has spent the greater part of his life in Kiev. In Odessa from 1890 to 1893 and in America from 1905 to 1907. Hebrew, Russian and Yiddish poet, novelist, humorous short story writer, critic and playwright. Prolific contributor to Hebrew and Yiddish periodicals. Founder of the Yiddish Vox Bibliotech. Novels, Stempenyu, Yossila, Solove, etc. Collected works. First series, Alevek. Four volumes, Krakow, 1903 to 1904. Second series, Neistavak. Eight volumes. Warsaw, 1909 to 1911. The Clock by Shalom Lechem. The Clock struck 13. Now, don't imagine I am joking. I am telling you in all seriousness what happened in Mazepevka, in our house, and I myself was there at the time. We had a clock. A large clock fastened to the wall, an old, old clock, inherited from my grandfather, which had been left to him by my great grandfather and so forth. Too bad that a clock should not be alive and able to tell us something beside the time of day. What stories we might have heard as we sat with it in the room? Our clock was famous throughout the town as the best clock going. Reb Simcha's clock. And people used to come and set their watches by it because it kept more accurate time than any other. You may believe me that even Reb Liebisch, the sage, a philosopher who understood the time of sunset from the sun itself and knew the calendar by rote, he said himself, I heard him, that our clock was, well, compared with his watch, it wasn't worth a pinch of snuff. But as there were such things as clocks, our clock was a clock. And if Reb Liebisch himself said so, you may depend upon it, he was right. Because every Wednesday between afternoon and evening prayer, Reb Liebisch climbed busily onto the roof of the women's shul, or onto the top of the old hill beside the old Bessa Medres, the house of study, and looked out for the minute when the sun should set. In one hand his watch, and in the other the calendar. And when the sun dropped out of sight on the further side of Mazepevka, Reb Liebisch said to himself, got him, and at once came away to compare his watch with the clocks. When he came into us, he never gave us a good evening, he only glanced up at the clock on the wall, then at his watch, then at the almanac, and was gone. But it happened one day that when Reb Liebisch came in to compare our clock with the almanac, he gave a shout, Simcha, my Christ, where are you? My father came running in terror, ah, what has happened, Reb Liebisch? Retch, you dare ask? And Reb Liebisch held his watch under my father's nose, pointed to our clock, and shouted again like a man with a trodden toe. Simcha, why don't you speak? It is a minute and a half ahead of the time, throw it away. My father was vexed. What did Reb Liebisch mean by telling to throw away his clock? Who is to prove, said he, that my clock is a minute and a half fast, perhaps it is the other way round, and your watch is a minute and a half slow? Who is to tell? Reb Liebisch stared at him, as though he had said that it was possible to have three days of the new moon, or that the seventeenth of Tammuz might possibly fall on the ease of Passover, or made some other such wild remark. Enough if one really took it in to give one an epileptic fit. Reb Liebisch never said a word. He gave a deep sigh, turned away without wishing us a good evening, slammed the door and was gone. But no one minded much, because the whole town knew Reb Liebisch for a person who was never satisfied with anything. He would tell you of the best canter that he was a dummy, a log, of the cleverest man that he was a lumbering animal, of the most appropriate match that it was as crooked as an oven rake, and of the most apt simile that it was as applicable as a pea to the wall. Such a man was Reb Liebisch. But let me return to our clock. I tell you that was a clock. You could hear it strike three rooms away. Half the town went by it to recite the midnight prayers, to get up early for celuchus during the week before New Year, and on the ten solemn days, to bake the sabbath loaves on Friday, to bless the candles on Friday evening. They lighted the fire by it on Saturday evening, they salted the meat, and so all the other things pertaining to Judaism. In fact, our clock was the town clock. The poor thing served us faithfully and never tried stopping, even for a time. Never once in its life had it to be set to rights by a clock maker. My father kept it in order by himself. He had an inborn talent for clockwork. Every year on the ease of Passover he deliberately took it down from the wall, dusted the wheels with a feather brush, removed from its inward part a collection of spider webs, desiccated flies, which the spiders had lured there to their destruction, and heaps of black cockroaches, which had gone in of themselves and found a terrible end. Having cleaned and polished it, he hung it up again on the wall and shone. That is, they both shone. The clock shone because it was cleaned and polished, and my father shone because the clock shone. It was on a fine, bright, cloudless day. We were all sitting at table eating breakfast, and the clock struck. Now I always loved to hear the clock strike and count the strokes out loud. One, two, three, seven, eleven, twelve, thirteen. I, thirteen. Thirteen, exclaimed my father, and laughed. You're a fine arithmetician, no evil eye. When did you hear a clock strike? Thirteen. But I tell you, it struck thirteen. I shall give you thirteen slaps, cried my father angrily, and then you won't repeat this nonsense again. Goy, a clock cannot strike thirteen. Do you know what, Simcha? put in my mother. I'm afraid the child is right. I fancy I counted thirteen, too. There's another witness, said my father. But it appeared that he had begun to feel a little doubtful himself. For after the meal he went up to the clock, got upon a chair, gave a turn to a little wheel inside the clock, and it began to strike. We all counted the strokes, nodding our head at each one the while. One, two, three, seven, nine, twelve, thirteen. Thirteen, exclaimed my father, looking at us in a maze. He gave the wheel another turn, and again the clock struck thirteen. My father got down off the chair with a sigh. He was white as the wall, and remained standing in the middle of the room, stared at the ceiling, chewed his beard, and muttered to himself. Plague take thirteen. What can it mean? What does it portend? If it were out of order, it would have stopped. Then what can it be? The inference can only be that some spring has gone wrong. Why worry whether it's a spring or not? said my mother. You'd better take down the clock and put it to rights, as you've returned that way. Hush, perhaps you're right, answered my father, took down the clock and busied himself with it. He perspired, spent a whole day over it, and hung it up again in its place. Thank God the clock was going as it should, and when near midnight we all stood round it and counted twelve, my father was overjoyed. Ha! It didn't strike thirteen then, did it? When I say it is a spring, I know what I'm about. I've always said you were a wonder, my mother told him. But there's one thing I don't understand. Why does it wheeze so? I don't think it used to wheeze like that. It's your fancy, said my father, and listened to the noise it made before striking, like an old man preparing to cough. And only then boom, boom, boom. And even the boom was not the same as formerly, for the former boom had been a cheerful one, and now they're crept into it a melancholy note, as into the voice of an old worn-out canter at the close of the service for the day of atonement, and the hoarseness increased, and the strike became lower and duller, and my father worried and anxious. It was plain that the affair preyed upon his mind, that he suffered in secret, that it was undermining his health, and yet he could do nothing. We felt that any moment the clock might stop altogether. The imp started playing all kinds of nasty tricks and idle pranks, shook itself sideways, and stumbled like an old man who drags his feet after him. One could see that the clock was about to stop forever. It was a good thing that my father understood in time that the clock was about to yield up its soul, and that the fault lay with the balance-weights. The weight was too light, and he puts on a jostle, which has the weight of about four pounds. The clock goes on like a song, and my father becomes as cheerful as a newborn man. But this was not to be for long. The clock began to lose again. The imp was back at his tiresome performances. He moved slowly on one side, quickly on the other, with a hoarse noise like a sick old man so that it went to the heart. A pity to see how the clock agonized, and my father as he watched it seemed like a flickering, bickering flame of a candle, and nearly went out for grief. Like a good doctor who is ready to sacrifice himself for the patient's sake, who puts forth all his energy, tries every remedy under the sun to save his patient. Even so, my father applied himself to save the old clock. If only it should be possible. The weight is too light, repeated my father, and hung something heavier on it every time. First a frying pan, then a copper jug, afterwards a flat iron, a bag of sand, a couple of tiles. And the clock revived every time, and went on with difficulty and distress, but still it went on. Till one night there was a misfortune. It was a Friday evening in winter. We had just eaten our sabbath supper, the delicious peppered fish with horseradish, the hot soup with macaroni, the stewed plums, and said Grace, as was meat, the sabbath candles flickered. The maid was just handing round fresh, hot, well-dried Polish nuts from off the top of the stove, when in came Aunt Yenta, a dark-favoured little woman without teeth, whose husband had deserted her to become a follower of the Rebbe quite a number of years ago. Good Shabbos! said Aunt Yenta. I know you had some fresh Polish nuts. The pity is I have nothing to crack them with. May my husband live no more years than I have teeth in my mouth. What did you think, Marka, of the fish today? What a struggle there was over them at the market! I asked him about his fish, Manasseh, the lazy, when up comes Thoreperil, the rich. Make haste, make haste, give it to me, hand me over that little pike. Why, in such a hurry, say I, God be with you, the river is not on fire, and Manasseh is not going to take the fish back there either. Take my word for it, with these rich people money is cheap and senses dear. Turns round on me and says, Porpers, she says, have no business here. A poor man, she says, shouldn't hanker after good things. What do you think of such a shrew? How long did she stand by her mother in the marketplace selling ribbons? She behaves just like pestle-pisser of the Homs over her daughter, the one she married to a great man in Shetricha, who took her just as she was without a dowry or anything. Jewish luck. They say she has a bad time of it. No evil eye to her days. Can't get on with his children. Well, who would be a stepmother? Let them beware. Take Chaval. What is there to find fault within her? And you should see the life her stepchildren lead her. One here shouting day and night, cursing, squabbling and fighting. The candles began to die down. The shadow climbed the wall, scrambled higher and higher. The nuts crackled in our hands. There was talking and telling stories and tales, just for the pleasure of it. One without any reference to the other. But Aunt Yenta talked more than anyone. Hush! cried out Aunt Yenta. Listen, because not long ago a still better thing happened. Not far from Yampel, about three bursts away, some robbers fell upon a Jewish tavern, killed a whole house full of people, down to a baby in a cradle. The only person left alive was a servant girl who was sleeping on the kitchen stove. She heard people screeching and jumped down this servant girl off the stove, peeped through a chink in the door and saw this servant girl, I'm telling you of, saw the master of the house and the mistress lying on the floor, murdered in a pool of blood. And she went back this girl and sprang through a window and ran into the town screaming, Jews to the rescue, help, help, help. Suddenly, just as Aunt Yenta was shouting, help, help, help, we heard, truck, truck, boom, dim, dim, boom. We were so deep in the story we only thought at first that robbers had descended upon our house and were firing guns, and we could not move for terror. For one minute we looked at one another, and then with an accord we began to call out, help, help, help. And my mother was so carried away that she clasped me in her arms and cried, my child, my life for yours, whoa, it's me. Ha, what, what is the matter with him? What has happened? exclaimed my father. Nothing, nothing, hush, hush, cried Aunt Yenta, gesticulating wildly, and the maid came running in from the kitchen, more dead than alive. Who screamed? What is it? Is there a fire? What is on fire? Where? Fire, fire, where is the fire? We all shrieked, help, help, give out, Jews to the rescue, fire, fire. Which fire? What fire? Where fire? Fire, take you, you foolish girl and make cinders of you. Scalded Aunt Yenta at the maid. Now she must come as though we weren't enough before. Fire indeed says she. Into the earth with you, to all black years. Did you ever hear of such a thing? What are you all yelling for? Do you know what it was that frightened you? The best joke in the world. And there's nobody to laugh with. God be with you. It was the clock falling onto the floor. Now you know. You hung every sort of thing onto it, and now it is fallen, weighing at least three put. And no wonder a man wouldn't have fared better. Did you ever? It was only then that we came to our senses. Rose, one by one from the table, went to the clock and saw it lying on its poor face. Killed, broken, shattered and smashed forevermore. There is an end to the clock, said my father, white as the wall. He hung his head, wrung his fingers, and the tears came into his eyes. I looked at my father and wanted to cry too. There now, see, what is the use of fretting to death? said my mother. No doubt it was so decreed, and written down in heaven that today, at that particular minute, our clock was to find its end. Just, I beg to distinguish, like a human being. May God not punish me for saying so. May it be an atonement for not remembering the Sabbath for me, for thee, for our children, for all near and dear to us, and for all Israel, O Maine, Sela. End of The Clock, by Sholam Aleichem.