 CHAPTER VIII. I was alone, free as a bird in the big cultivated field. Above me was the whole of the blue cap called the sky. For me alone shone the beautiful queen of the day, the sun. For my sake there came together here in the big field all the singers and warblers and dancers. For my sake there was spread before me the row of tall sunflowers and the delicate growths were scattered all over the field by a benevolent nature. No one bothered me, no one prevented me from doing what I liked, no one saw me but God, and I could do what I liked. If I liked I might sing, if I liked I might shout and scream at the top of my voice, if I liked I might make a horn with my hands and blow out a melody. If I liked I might roll on the green grass just as I was curling myself up like a hedgehog. Who was there to give me orders, and whom would I pay heed to? I was free, I was free. The day was so warm, the sun so beautiful, the sky so clear, the field so green, the grass so fresh, my heart so gay, and my soul so joyful, that I forgot completely I was a stranger in the field and had merely come out to cut green bowels for chivalrous. I imagined I was a prince, and the whole field that my eyes rested on and everything in the field and even the blue sky above it all were mine. I owned everything and could do what I liked with it I and no one else. And like an overlord who had complete control of everything I longed to show my power, my strength, my authority, all that I could and would do. First of all I was displeased with the tall giants with the yellow hats and the sunflowers. Suddenly they appeared to me as my enemies, and all the other plants with and without stalks, the beans and bean stalks were enemies too. They were the Philistines that had settled on my ground. Who had sent for them? And those thick green plants lying on the ground with huge green heads, the caviages. What are they doing here? They will only get drunk and bring a misfortune upon me. Let them go into the earth. I do not want them. Angry thoughts and fierce instincts woke within me. A curious feeling of vengefulness took possession of me. I began to avenge myself of my enemies and what a vengeance it was. I had with me all the tools I would need for cutting the green boughs for the festival—pocket knife with two blades and a sword, a wooden sword, but a sharp one. This sword had remained with me after Lagba Omer, and although I had carried it with me when I had gone with my comrades to do battle outside the town, yet I could swear to you, though you may believe me without an oath, that the sword had not spilled one drop of blood. It was one of those weapons that I carried about in times of peace. There was not a sign of war. It was quiet and peaceful around and about. I carried the sword because I wanted to. For the sake of peace one must have in readiness swords and guns and rifles and cannon, horses and soldiers. May they never be needed for ill, as my mother used to say when she was making preserves. It is the same all the world over. In a war one aims first at the leaders, the officers. It is better still if one can hit the general. After that the soldiers fall like chaff in any event. Therefore you will not be surprised to hear that, first of all, I fell upon Goliath the Philistine. I gave him a good blow on the head with my sword and a few good blows from the back, and the wicked one was stretched at my feet full length. After that I knocked over a good many more wicked ones. I pulled the stalks out of the ground and threw them to the devil. The short, fat, green enemies I attacked in a different manner. Wherever I could I took the green heads off. The others I trampled downward my feet. I made a heap of ashes of them. During a battle when the blood is hot and one is carried away by excitement, one cuts down everything that is at hand, right and left. When one is spilling blood one loses one's self. One does not know where one is in the world. At such a time one does not honour old age. One does not care about weak women. One has no pity for little children. Blood is simply poured out like water. When I was cutting down the enemy I felt a hatred and a malice I had never experienced before immediately after I had delivered the first blow. The more I killed the more excited I became. I urged myself to go on. I was so beside myself, so inflamed, so ecstatic that I smashed up and destroyed everything before me. I cut about me on all sides. Most of all the little ones suffered at my hands, the young peas in the fat little pods, the tiny cucumbers that were just showing above ground. These excited me by their silence and their coldness. And I gave them such a share that they would never forget me. I knocked off heads, tore open bellies, shattered to atoms, beat, murdered, killed. May I know of evil as little as I know how I came to be so wicked. Innocent potatoes, poor things, that lay deep in the earth, I dug out, just to show them that there was no hiding from me. Little onions and green garlic I tore up by the roots. Radishes flew about me like hail. And may the Lord punish me if I even tasted a single bite of anything. I remembered the law in the Bible forbidding it, and Jews do not plunder. Every minute when an evil spirit came and tempted me to taste a little onion or a young garlic, the words of the Bible came to my mind. And I did not cease from beating, breaking, wounding, and killing, and cutting to pieces, old and young, poor and rich, big and little, without the least mercy. On the contrary, I imagined I heard their wails and groans and cries for mercy, and I was not moved. It was remarkable that I who could not bear to see a foul slaughtered, or a cat beaten, or a dog insulted, or a horse whipped, I should be such a tyrant, such a murderer. Vengeance! I shouted without ceasing. Vengeance! I will have my revenge of you for all the Jewish blood that was spilled. I will repay you for Jerusalem, for the Jews of Spain and Portugal, and for the Jews of Morocco, and also for the Jews who fell in the past, and those who are falling today, and for the scrolls of the law that were torn, and for the—oh, oh, oh, help!—who has me by the ear! Two good thumps and two good smacks in the face at the one time sobered me on the instant. I saw before me a man who, I could have sworn, was Ocrime the Gardener. Ocrime the Gardener had for years cultivated fields outside the town. He rented a piece of ground, made a garden of it, and planted in it melons, and pumpkins, and onions, and garlic, and radishes, and other vegetables. He made a good living in this way. How did I know, Ocrime? He used to deal with us. That is to say, he used to borrow money off my mother every Passover eve, and about sukkath time he used to pay it back by degrees. These payments used to be entered on the inside cover of my mother's prayer-book. There was a separate page for Ocrime and a separate account. It was headed in big writing Ocrime's account. Under these words came the entries, a ruble from Ocrime, another ruble from Ocrime, two rubles from Ocrime, half a ruble from Ocrime, a sack of potatoes from Ocrime, and so on. And though my mother was not rich, a widow with children who lived by money-lending, she took no interest from Ocrime. He used to pay us in garden produce, sometimes more, sometimes less. We never quarreled with him. If the harvest was good, he filled our cellar with potatoes and cucumbers to last us all the winter. And if the harvest was bad, he used to come and plead with my mother, Do not be offended, Mrs. Abraham, the harvest is bad. My mother forgave him and told him not to be greedy next year. You may trust me, Mrs. Abraham, you may trust me," Ocrime replied, and he kept his word. He brought us the first pickings of onions and garlic. We had new potatoes and green cucumbers before the rich folks. I heard our neighbours say more than once that the widow was not so badly off as she said. See, they bring her the best of everything. Of course, I had once told my mother what I had heard, and she poured out a few curses on our neighbours. Salt in their eyes and stones in their hearts. Whoever begrudges me what I have, let him have nothing. I wish them to be in my position next year. Naturally, I had once told my neighbours what my mother had wished them, and, of course, for these words they were enraged against her. They called her by a name I was ashamed to hear. Naturally, I was angry, and at once told my mother of it. My mother gave me two smacks, and told me to give up carrying Purim presents from one to the other. The smacks pained, and the words Purim presents gnawed at my brain. I could not understand why she said Purim presents. I used to rejoice when I saw Okrim from the distance, in his high boots, in his thick, white, warm, woollen police which he wore winter and summer. When I saw him, I knew he was bringing us a sackful of garden produce, and I flew into the kitchen to tell my mother the news that Okrim was coming. I must confess that there was a sort of secret love between Okrim and myself, a sort of sympathy that could not be expressed in words. We rarely spoke to one another. Firstly, because I did not understand his language, that is to say I understood his, but he did not understand mine. Secondly, I was shy. How could I talk to such a big Okrim? I had to ask my mother to be our interpreter. Mother, ask him why he does not bring me some grapes. Where is he going to get them? There are no grapes growing in the vegetable garden. Why are there no grapes in a vegetable garden? Because vine trees do not grow with vegetables. Why do vine trees not grow with vegetables? Why, why, why, you are a fool! cried my mother, and gave me a smack in the face. Mrs. Abraham, do not beat the child, said Okrim, defending me. That is the sort of gentile Okrim was, and it was in his hands I found myself that day when I waged war against the vegetables. This is what I believe took place. When Okrim came up and saw his garden in ruins, he could not at once understand what had happened. Then he saw me swinging my sword about me on all sides. He ought to have realized I was a terrible being, an evil spirit, a demon, and crossed himself several times. When he saw that it was a Jewish boy who was fighting so vigorously and with a wooden sword, he took hold of me by the ear with so much force that I collapsed, fell to the ground, and screamed in a voice unlike my own, oh, oh, oh, who is pulling me by the ear? It was only after Okrim had given me a few good thumps and several resounding smacks that we encountered each other's eyes and recognized one another. We were both so astonished that we were speechless. Mrs. Abraham's boy cried Okrim, and he crossed himself. He began to realize the ruin I had brought to his garden. He scrutinized each bed and examined each little stick. He was so overcome that the tears filled his eyes. He stood facing me, his hands folded, and he asked me only one solitary question. Why have you done this to me? It was only then that I realized the mischief I had done and whom I had done it to. I was so amazed of myself that I could only repeat. Why? Why? Come, said Okrim, and took me by the hand. I was bowed to the earth with fear. I imagined he was going to make an end of me. But Okrim did not touch me. He only held me so tightly by the hand that my eyes began to bulge from my head. He brought me home to my mother and told her everything, and left me entirely in her hands. Need I tell you what I got from my mother? Need I describe for you her anger and her fright, and how she rung her hands when Okrim told her in detail all that had taken place in his garden and of all the damage I had done to his vegetables? Okrim took his stick and showed my mother how I had destroyed everything on all sides, how I had smashed and broken and trampled down everything with my feet, pulled the little potatoes out of the ground, and torn the tops off the little onions and the garlic that were just showing above the earth. And why, and wherefore, why, Mrs. Abraham, why? Okrim could say no more. The sobs stuck in his throat and choked him. I must tell you the real truth, children. I would rather Okrim with the strong arms had beaten me than have got what I did from my mother before Shavuos, and what the teacher gave me after Shavuos, and the shame of it all. I was reminded of it all the year round by the boys at Echeida. They gave me a nickname, The Gardener. I was Yosel the Gardener, and this nickname stuck to me almost until the day I was married. That is how I went to gather greens for Shavuos. End of Chapter 8 Chapter 9 of Jewish Children by Sholam-Elechem This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Jewish Children, Yurishakinda by Sholam-Elechem, translated by Hannah Berman, and read by Adrienne Pretzelis. Chapter 9 Another Page from the Song of Songs Quicker, Bussy, quicker! I said to her the day before the Shavuos. I took her by the hand, and we went quickly up the hill. The day will not stand still, little fool, and we have to climb such a high hill. After the hill we have another stream. Over the stream there are some boards, a little bridge. The stream flows, the frogs croak, and the boards shake and tremble. On the other side of the bridge, over there is the real Garden of Eden. Over there begins my real property. Your property? I mean the Levada, the big field that stretches away and away without a beginning and without an end. It is covered with a green mantle, sprinkled with yellow flowers, and nailed down with little red nails. It gives out a delicious odour. The most fragrant spices in the world are there. I have trees there beyond the counting, tall, many branched trees. I have a little hill there that I sit on when I like, or else, by pronouncing the holy name, I can rise up and fly away like an eagle across the clouds, over fields and woods, over seas and deserts, until I come to the other side of the mountain of darkness. And from there, puts in Bussy, you walk seven miles till you come to a little stream. No, to a thick wood. First I go in and out of the trees, and after that I come to the little stream. You swim across the water and count seven times seven. Then there appears to me a little old man with a long beard. He asks you, what is your desire? I say to him, bring me the queen's daughter. Bussy takes her hand from mine and runs down the hill. I run after her. Bussy, why are you running off? Bussy does not answer. She is vexed. She likes the story I told her, accepting the part about the queen's daughter. You have not forgotten who Bussy is? I told you once, but if you have forgotten, I will tell you again. I had an older brother, Benny. He was drowned. He left after him a watermill, a young widow, two horses, and a little child. The mill was neglected, the horses were sold, the widow married again and went away, somewhere far, and the child was brought to us. This child was Bussy. Ha, ha, ha! Everybody thinks that Bussy and I are sister and brother. She calls my mother, mother, and my father, father, and we too live together like sister and brother, and love one another like sister and brother. Like sister and brother, then why is Bussy ashamed before me? It happened once that we too were left alone in the house, we too by ourselves in the whole house. It was evening towards nightfall. My father had gone to the synagogue to recite the mourner's prayer after my dead brother Benny, and my mother had gone out to buy matches. Bussy and I crept into a corner, and I told her stories. Bussy likes me to tell her stories, find stories of Haida, or from the Arabian nights. She crept close to me, and put her hand into mine. Tell me something, Shemak, tell me. Softly fell the night around us. The shadows crept slowly up the walls, paused on the floor, and stole all around. We could hardly, hardly see one another's face. I felt her hand trembling. I heard her little heart beating. I saw her eyes shining in the dark. Suddenly she drew her hand from mine. What is it, Bussy? We must not. What must we not? Hold each other's hands? Why not? Who told you that? I know it myself. Are we strangers? Are we not sister and brother? Oh, if we were sister and brother, cried Bussy. And I imagined I heard in her voice the words from the Song of Songs. Oh, that thou word is my brother. It is all was so. When I speak of Bussy, I always think of the Song of Songs. Where was I? I was telling you of the eve of the chavouce. Well, we ran downhill, Bussy in front, I after her. She is angry with me because of the Queen's daughter. She likes all my stories, excepting the one about the Queen's daughter. But Bussy's anger need not worry one. It does not last long. No longer than it takes to tell of it. She is again looking up at me with her great, bright, thoughtful eyes. She tosses back her hair and says to me, She-Mack, oh, She-Mack, just look! What a sky! Do you not see what is going on all around us? I see, little fool. Why should I not? I see a sky. I feel a warm breeze blowing. I hear the birds piping and twittering as they fly over our heads. It is our sky and our breeze. The little birds are ours too. Everything is ours, ours, ours. Give me your hand, Bussy. No, she will not give me her hand. She is ashamed. Why is Bussy ashamed before me? Why does she grow red? There, says Bussy to me, over there on the other side of the bridge. And I imagine she is repeating the words of the Shulamite in the Song of Songs. Come, my beloved, let us go forth into the field. Let us lodge in the villages. Let us get up early to the vineyards. Let us see if the vine flourish, whether the tender grape appear and the pomegranates bud forth. And we are at the little bridge. The stream flows. The frogs croak. The boards of the little bridge are shaking. Bussy is afraid. Ah, Bussy, you are a—why are you afraid, little fool? Hold on to me. Or let us take hold of one another. You of me and I of you. See? That's right, that's right. No more little bridge. We still cling to one another as we walk along. We are alone in this garden of Eden. Bussy holds me tightly, very tightly. She is silent, but I imagine she is talking to me in the words from the Song of Songs. My beloved is mine, and I am his. The levada is big. It stretches away without a beginning and without an end. It is covered with a green mantle, sprinkled with yellow flowers, and nailed down with red nails. It gives out a delicious odour. The most fragrant spices in the world are there. We walked along, embraced. We too alone in the garden of Eden. She-mack, says Bussy to me, looking straight into my eyes and nestling still closer to me. When shall we start gathering the green boughs for the chivalrous? The day is long enough, little fool, I say to her. I am on fire. I do not know where to look first, whether at the blue sky or the green fields, or over there at the end of the world where the sky has become one with the earth. Or shall I look at Bussy's shining face into her large, beautiful eyes that are to me deep as the heavens and dreamy as the night. Her eyes are always dreamy. A deep sorrow lies hidden within them. They are veiled by a shade of melancholy. I know her sorrow. I am acquainted with the cause of her melancholy. She has a great grief in her heart. She is pained because her mother married a stranger and went away from her forever and ever, as if she had been nothing to her. In my home her mother's name must not be mentioned. It is as if Bussy had never had a mother. My mother is her mother, and my father is her father. They love her as if she were their own child. They fret over her and give her everything that her heart desires. There is nothing too dear for Bussy. She wanted to go with me to gather green boughs for the festival decorations. I told her to ask it. And my father said to my mother, What do you think? He looked over his silver spectacles and stroked the silver white hair of his beard, and there went on an argument between my father and mother about her going off outside the town to gather green boughs for the chivalrous. Father, what do you say? Mother, what do you say? Father, shall we let them go? Mother, why should we not let them go? Father, do I say we should not? Mother, then what are you saying? Father, I am saying we should let them go. Mother, why should they not go? And so forth. I know what is worrying them. About twenty times my mother warned me, my father repeating the words after her, that there is a bridge to be crossed, and under that bridge there is water, a stream, a stream, a stream. We, Bussy and I, have long forgotten the little bridge and the river and the stream. We are going across the broad, free Levada under the blue open sky. We run across the green fields, fall and roll about on the sweet smelling grass. We get up, fall again, and roll about again, and yet again. We have not yet gathered a single green leaf for the festival decorations. I take Bussy over the length and breadth of the Levada. I show off before her with my property. Do you see those trees? Do you see this sand? Do you see that little hill? Are they all yours? asks Bussy. Her eyes are laughing. I am annoyed because she laughs at me. She always laughs at me. I get sulky and turn away from her for a moment. Seeing that I am sulky, she goes in front of me, looks into my eyes, takes my hands, and says to me, she mack. My socks are gone, and all is forgotten. I take her hand and lead her to my hill, there where I sit, always, every summer. If I like, I sit down, and if I like, I rise up with the help of the Lord by pronouncing his holy name, and I fly off like an eagle above the clouds, over fields and woods, over seas and deserts. We sit on the hill, Bussy and I. We have not yet gathered a single green leaf for the festival. We tell stories. That is to say, I tell stories, and she listens. I tell her what will happen at some far, far off time. When I am a man and she is a woman, we will get married. We will both rise up by pronouncing the holy name, and travel the whole world. First we will go to all the countries that Alexander the Great was in. Then we will run over to the land of Israel. We will go to the hills of spices, fill our pockets with locust beans, figs, dates and olives, and fly off further and still further. And everywhere we will play a different sort of trick, for no one will see us. Will no one see us? asks Bussy, catching hold of my hand. No one, no one. We shall see every one, but no one will see us. In that case, I have something to ask you. A request? A little request. But I know her little request, to fly off to where her mother is, and play a little trick on her stepfather. Why not, I say to her, with the greatest of pleasure, you may leave it to me, little fool. I can do something which they will not forget in a hurry. Not them, him alone, pleads Bussy. But I do not give in so readily. When I get into a temper it is dangerous. Why should I forgive her for what she has done to Bussy, the cheeky woman? The idea of marrying another man and going off with him, the devil knows where, leaving her child behind, and never even writing a letter? Did any one ever hear of such a wrong? I excited myself for nothing. I was as sorry as if dogs were gnawing at me, but it was too late. Bussy had covered her face with her two hands. Was she crying? I could have torn myself to pieces. What good had it done me to open her wound by speaking of her mother? In my own heart I called myself every bad name I could think of. Horse, beast, ox, cat, good for nothing, long tongue. I drew closer to Bussy, and took hold of her hand. I was about to say to her the words of the Song of Songs, Let me see thy countenance, let me hear thy voice. Suddenly how did my father and mother come here? My father's silver spectacles shined from the distance. The silver strands of his hair and beard are spread out on the breeze. My mother is waving her shawl at us. We too, Bussy and I, remain sitting. We are like paralyzed. What are my parents doing here? They had come to see what we were doing. They were afraid some accident had befallen us, God forbid. Who could tell? A little bridge, a water, a stream, a stream, a stream. Curious father and mother. And where are your green boughs? What green boughs? The green boughs that you went to gather for the chivalrous decorations. Bussy and I exchanged glances. I understood her looks. I imagine I heard her saying to me in the words of the Song of Songs, and that thou wert as my brother. Why are you not, my brother? Well, I expect we shall get some greenery for chivalrous somehow, says my father with a smile, and the silver strands of his silver white beard glistened like rays of light in the golden red of the sun. Thank God the children are well, and that no evil has befallen them. Praise be the Lord! replies my mother to him, wiping her moist red face with the ends of her shawl. And they are both glad. They seem to grow broader than long with delight. Curious, curious father and mother. End of chapter 9. Chapter 10 of Jewish Children by Sholom Alechem This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Jewish Children, Yiddishakinda, by Sholom Alechem, translated by Hannah Berman, and read by Adrian Pretzelis. Chapter 10. A Pity for the Living If you were a good boy, you would help us to scrape the horse radish until we were ready with the fish for the holy festival. That was what my mother said to me on the eve of chivalrous about midday. She was helping the cook to prepare the fish for the supper. The fishes were still alive and wriggling. When they were put into a clay basin and covered with water, they were still struggling. More than any of the others, they struggled a little carp with a broad back and a round head and red eyes. It seemed that the little carp had a strong desire to get back into the river. It struggled hard. It leapt out of the basin, flapped its tail, and splashed the water right into my face. Little boy, save me! Little boy, save me! I wiped my face and betook myself to the task of scraping the horse radish for the supper. I thought within myself, poor little fish, I can do nothing for you. They will soon take you in hand. You will be scaled and ripped open, cut into pieces, poured in a pot, salted and peppered, placed on the fire, and boiled and simmered and simmered and simmered. It's a pity, I said to my mother. It's a pity for the living. For whom is it a pity? It's a pity of the little fishes. Who told you that? The teacher? The teacher? She exchanged glances with the cook who was helping her, and they both laughed aloud. You are a fool, and your teacher is a still-greater fool. Ha-ha! Scrape the horse radish, scrape away! That I was a fool, I knew. My mother told me that frequently, and my brothers and my sisters too. But that my teacher was a greater fool than I. That was news to me. I have a comrade, Penali, the Shoichat's son. I was at his house one day, and saw how a little girl carried a fowl, a huge cock, its legs tied with a string. My comrade's father, the Shoichat, was asleep, and the little girl sat at the door and waited. The cock, a fine strong bird, tried to get out of the girl's arms. He drove his strong feet into her, pecked at her hand, let out from his throat a loud cock-a-doodle-doo, protested as much as he could. But the girl was no weakling either. She thrust the head of the rooster under her arm, and dug her elbows into him, saying, Be still, you wretch! And he obeyed, and remained silent. When the Shoichat woke up, he washed his hands and took out his knife. He motioned to have the bird handed to him. I imagined that the cock changed colour. He must have thought that he was going to be freed to race back to his hands, to the corn and the water. But it was not so. The Shoichat turned him round, caught him between his knees, thrust back his head with one hand, the other plucked out a few little feathers, pronounced the blessing, Heck! The knife was drawn across his throat. He was cast away. I thought he would fall to pieces. Penali, your father is a heathen, I said to my comrade. Why is he a heathen? He has in him no pity for the living. I did not know you were so clever, said my comrade, and he pulled a long nose right into my face. A cook is blind of one eye. She is called a frimmer with one little eye. She is a girl without a heart. She once beat the cat with nettles for having run away with a little liver from the board. Afterwards, when she counted the fouls and the livers, it turned out that she had made a mistake. She had thought there were seven fouls, and of course seven little livers, and there were only six. And if there were only six fouls, there could only be six little livers. Marvelous! She had accused the cat wrongly. You might imagine that Frumer was sorry and apologised to the cat, but it appeared she forgot all about it, and the cat too forgot all about it. A few hours later she was lying on the stove, licking herself as if nothing had happened. It's not for nothing that people say a cat's brains. But I did not forget. No, I did not forget. I said to the cook, You beat the cat for nothing. You had a sin for no reason. It was a pity for the living. The Lord will punish you. Will you go away, or else I will give it to you across the face with the towel. That is what Frumer with one little eye said to me, and she added, Lord Almighty, wherever in the world do such children come from? It was all about a dog that had been scalded with boiling water by the same Frumer with the one little eye. Oh, how much pain it caused the dog! It squealed, howled, and barked with all its might, filling the world with noise. The whole town came together at the sound of his howling, and laughed, and laughed, and laughed. All the dogs in the town barked out of sympathy, each from his own kennel, and each after his own fashion. One might think that they had been asked to bark. Afterwards, when the scalded dog had finished howling, he moaned and muttered and licked his sores, and growled softly. My heart melted within me. I went over to him, and was going to funnel him. Here, Circo. The dog, seeing my raised hand, jumped up as if he had been scalded again, took his tail between his legs, and ran away, away. Shaa, Circo! I said, trying to soothe him with soft words. Why do you run away like that, fool? Am I doing you any harm? A dog is a dog. His tongue is dumb. He knows nothing of pity for the living. My father saw me running after the dog, and he pounced down on me. Go into Haida, dog-beater. Then I was the dog-beater. It was all about two little birds, two tiny little birds that two boys, one being and one small, had killed. When the two little birds dropped from the tree, they were still alive. Their feathers were ruffled. They fluttered their wings, and trembled in every limb. Get up, you hedgehog! said the big boy to the small boy, and they took the little birds in their hands, and beat their heads against the tree-trunk until they died. I could not contain myself, but ran over to the two boys. What are you doing here? I asked. What's that to do with you? they demanded in Russian. What harm is it? they asked calmly. They are no more than birds, ordinary little birds. And if they are only birds, have you no pity for the living, no mercy for the little birds? The boys looked curiously at one another, and as if they had already made up their minds in advance to do it, they at once fell upon me. When I came home, my torn jacket told the story, and my father gave me the good beating I deserved. Ragged fool! cried my mother. I forgave her for the ragged fool. But why did she also beat me? Why was I beaten? Does not our teacher himself tell us that all creatures are dear to the Lord? Even a fly on the wall must not be hurt, he said, out of pity for the living. Even a spider, that is an evil spirit, must not be killed either, he tells us sympathically. If the spider deserved to die, then the Lord himself would slay him. Then comes the question. Very well. If that is so, then why do the people slaughter cows and calves and sheep and fowl every day of the week? And not only cows and other animals and fowls, but do not men slaughter one another? At the time when we had the pogrom, did not men throw down little children from the tops of houses? Did they not kill our neighbor's little girl? Her name was Perali, and how did they kill her? Ah, how I loved that little girl, and how that little girl loved me. Uncle Babibi! she used to call me. My name is Vivali, and she used to pull me by the nose with her small, thin, sweet little fingers. Because of her, because of Perali, everyone calls me Uncle Babibi. Here comes Uncle Babibi, and he will take you in hand. Perali was a sickly child. That is to say, in the ordinary way, she was all right, but she could not walk, neither walk, nor stand. Only sit. They used to carry her into the open, and put her sitting in the sand, right in the sun. She loved the sun, loved it terribly. I used to carry her about. She used to clasp me around the neck with her small, thin, sweet little fingers, and nestle her whole body close to me, closer and closer. She would put her head on my shoulder. I love Uncle Babibi. Our neighbour, Crenny, says she cannot forget Uncle Babibi to this day. When she sees me, she says she is again reminded of her Perali. My mother is angry with her for weeping. We must not weep, says my mother. We must not sin. We must forget, forget. That is what my mother says. She interrupts Crenny in the middle, and drives me off. If you don't get into our eyes, we won't remember that which we must not. Ha-ha! How is it possible to forget? When I think of that little girl, the tears come into my eyes of their own accord, of their own accord. See, she weeps again. The wise one cries from her with the little eye to my mother. My mother gives me a quick glance, and laughs aloud. The horseradish has gone into your eyes. The devil take you. It's a hard piece of horseradish. I forgot to tell him to close his eyes. Woe is me! Here is my apron. Wipe your eyes, foolish boy, and your nose too. Wipe at the same time. Your nose. Your nose. End of Chapter 10 Chapter 11 of Jewish Children by Sholom Alechem This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Jewish Children Yiddishakinda by Sholom Alechem translated by Hannah Berman and read by Adrian Prezellus. Chapter 11 The Tabernacle The Sooker There are people who have never been taught anything and know everything. Have never been anywhere and understand everything. Have never given a moment's thought to anything and comprehend everything. Blessed Hands is the name bestowed on these fortunate beings. The world envies, honours, and respects them. There was such a man in our town, Kastralevka. They called him Moshe for once, because whatever he saw or made, he exclaimed, it is such and such a thing for once. A new canter in the synagogue, he is a canter for once. Someone is preparing a turkey for the Passover. It is a turkey for once. There will be a fine frost to-morrow. A fine frost for once. There were blows exchanged at the meeting. Good blows for once. Ah, Jews, I'm a poor man. A poor man for once. And so of everything. Moshe was a—I cannot tell you what Moshe was. He was a Jew, but what he lived by, it would be hard to say. He lived as many thousands of Jews lived in Kastralevka, tens of thousands. He hovered around the Overlord. That is, not the Overlord himself, but the gentle folks that were with the Overlord. And not around the gentle folks themselves, but around the Jews that hovered around the gentle folks who were with the Overlord. And if he made a living, that was another story. Moshe for once was a man who hated to boast of his good fortune or to bemoan his ill fortune. He was always jolly. His cheeks were always red. One end of his moustache was longer than the other. His hat was always on one side of his head, and his eyes were always smiling and kindly. He never had any time, but was always ready to walk ten miles to do any one a favour. That's the sort of man Moshe for once was. There wasn't a thing in the world Moshe for once could not make. A house or a clock or a machine, a lamp, a spinning top, a tap, a mirror, a cage or what not. True, no one could point to the houses, the clocks or the machines that came from his hands, but everyone was satisfied that Moshe could make them. Everyone said that if need be Moshe could turn the world upside down. The misfortune was that he had no tools. I mean the contrary, that was his good fortune. Through this the world was not turned upside down, that is, the world remained a world. That Moshe was not torn to pieces was a miracle. When a lock went wrong they came to Moshe. When the clock stopped or the tap on the Samovar went out of order or there appeared in a house black beetles or bugs or other filthy creatures it was always Moshe who was consulted. Or when the fox came and choked the fowls whose advice was asked. It was always and ever Moshe for once. True the broken lock was thrown away, the clock had to be sent to the watchmaker and the Samovar to the coppersmith. The black beetles and bugs and other filthy things were not at all frightened of Moshe and the fox went on doing what a fox ought to do. But Moshe for once still remained the same Moshe for once he had been. After all he had blessed hands and no doubt he had something in him a world cannot be mad. In proof of this why do the people not come to you or me with their broken locks or broken clocks or for advice on how to get rid of foxes or black beetles and bugs and other filthy things. All the people in the world are not the same and it appears that talent is rare. We became very near neighbors with this Moshe for once. We lived in the same house with him under the one roof. I say became because before that we lived in our own house. The wheels of fortune suddenly turned round for us. Times grew bad. We did not wish to be a burden to any one. We sold our house, paid our debts, and moved into Hirscher Mumt's house. It was an old ruin without a garden, without a yard, without a paling, without a body, and without life. Well, it's a hut, said my mother pretending to be merry, but I saw tears in her eyes. Do not sin, said my father, who was black as the earth. Thank God for this. Why for this I do not know, perhaps because we were not living in the street. I would rather have lived on the street than in this house with strange boys and girls whom I did not know, nor wish to know with their yellow hair and their running noses and their thin legs and fat bellies. When they walked they waddled like ducks. They did nothing but eat, and when anyone else was eating they stared right into his mouth. I was very angry with the Lord for having taken our house from us. I was not sorry for the house as much for the tabernacle we had there. It stood from year to year. It had a roof that could be raised and lowered, and a beautiful carved ceiling of green and yellow boards made into squares with a shield of David in the middle. True, kind friends told us to hope on, for we should one day buy the house back, or the Lord would help us to build another, and a better and a bigger and a handsomer house than the one we had to sell. But all this was cold comfort to us. I heard the same words when I broke my tin watch, accidentally of course, into fragments. My mother smacked me, and my father wiped my eyes, and promised to buy me a better and a bigger and handsomer watch than the one I broke. But the more my father praised the watch he was going to buy for me, the more I cried for the other, the old watch. When my father was not looking, my mother wept silently for the old house, and my father sighed and groaned. A black cloud settled on his face, and his big white forehead was covered with wrinkles. I thought it was very wrong of the father of the universe to have taken our house from us. I ask you, may your health increase? What are we going to do with the tabernacle? Asked my mother of my father some time before the Feast of Tabernacles. You probably mean to ask, what are we going to do without a tabernacle? replied my father, attempting a jest. I saw that he was distressed. He turned away to one side so that we might not see his face, which was covered with a thick black cloud. My mother blew her nose to swallow her tears, and I looking at them. Suddenly my father turned to us with a lively expression on his face. Hush! We have here a neighbour called Moshe. Moshe for once, asked my mother, and I do not know whether she was making fun or was in earnest. It seemed that she was in earnest. For half an hour later the three of them were going about the house. Father, Moshe, and Hirschke-Mumps's are landlord, looking for a spot on which to erect a tabernacle. Hirschke-Mumps's house was all right. It had only one fault. It stood on the street and had not a scrap of yard. It looked as if it had been lost in the middle of the road. Somebody was walking along and lost a house without a yard, without a roof. The door on the other side of the street, like a coat with a waist in front and buttons underneath. If you talk to Hirschke, he will bore you to death about his house. He will tell you how he came by it, how they wanted to take it from him, and how he fought for it till it remained with him. Where do you intend to erect the tabernacle, read Moshe? Asked father of Moshe for once. And Moshe for once, his hat on the back of his head, was lost in thought as if he were a great architect formulating a big plan. He pointed with his hand from here to there, and from there to here. He tried to make us understand that if the house were not standing in the middle of the street, and if it had had a yard, we would have had two walls ready made, and he could have built us a tabernacle in a day. Why do I say a day, in an hour? But since the house had no yard, and we needed four walls, the tabernacle would take a little longer to build. But for that again we would have had a tabernacle for once. The main thing was to get the material. There will be materials. Have you the tools? said Hirschke. The tools will be found. Have you the timber? asked Moshe. There is timber. Have you the nails? asked Hirschke. Nails can be got. Have you the furbows? asked Moshe. Somehow you are a little too so-so today, said Hirschke. A little too what? asked Moshe. They looked each other straight in the eyes, and both burst out laughing. When Hirschke Mumtsis brought the first few boards and beams, Moshe said that, please, God, it would be a tabernacle for once. I wondered how he was going to make a tabernacle out of the few boards and beams. I begged of my mother to let me stand by whilst Moshe was working, and Moshe not only let me stand by with him, but even let me be his assistant. I was to hand him what he wanted, and hold things for him. Of course, this put me into the seventh heaven of delight. Was it a trifle to help build the tabernacle? I was of great assistance to Moshe. I moved my lips when he hammered, went for meals when he went, shouted at the other children not to hinder us, handed Moshe the hammer when he wanted the chisel, and the pincers when he wanted a nail. Any other man would have thrown the hammer or the pincers at my head for such help, but Moshe for once had no temper. No one had ever had the privilege of seeing him angry. Anger is a sinful thing. It does as little good as any sin. And because I was greatly absorbed in the work, I did not notice how and by what miracle the tabernacle came into being. Come and see the tabernacle we have built, I said to my father, and dragged him out of the house by the tails of his coat. My father was delighted with our work. He looked at Moshe with a smile, and said, pointing at me, Had you at any rate a little help from him? It was a help for once, replied Moshe, looking up at the roof of the tabernacle with anxious eyes. If only our Herschke brings us the fur boughs, it will be a tabernacle for once. Herschke months us, worried us about the fur boughs. He put off going for them from day to day. The day before the festival he went off and brought a cartload of thin sticks, a sort of weeds, such as grow on the banks of the river. And we began to cover the tabernacle. That is to say Moshe did the work, and I helped him by driving off the goats, which had gathered around the fur boughs, as if they were something worthwhile. I do not know what taste they found in the bitter green stalks. Because the house stood alone in the middle of the street, there was no getting rid of the goats. If you drove one off another came up. The second was only just got rid of when the first sprang up again. I drove them off with sticks. Get out of this! Are you here again, foolish goats? Get off! The devil knows how they found out we had green fur boughs. It seems they told one another, because they gathered around us all the goats of the town. And I, all alone, had to do battle with them. The Lord helped us, and we had all the fur boughs on the roof. The goats remained standing around us like fools. They looked up with foolish eyes, and stupidly chewed the cud. I had my revenge of them, and I said to them, Why don't you take the fur boughs now, foolish goats? They must have understood me, for they began to go off one by one in search of something to eat. And we began to decorate the tabernacle from the inside. First of all we strewed the floor with sand. Then we hung on the walls all the wadded quilts belonging to the neighbours. Where there was no wadded quilt there hung a shawl, and where there was no shawl there was a sheet or a table-cloth. Then we brought out all the chairs and tables, the candlesticks and candles, the plates and knives and forks and spoons, and each of the three women of the house made the blessing over her own candles for the feast of tabernacles. My mother, peace be under her, was a woman who loved to weep. The days of mourning were her days of rejoicing, and since we had lost her own house her eyes were not dry for a single minute. My father, though he was also fretted, did not like this. He told her to fear the Lord and not sin. There were worse circumstances than ours, thank God. But now in the tabernacle, when she was blessing the festival candles, she could cover her face with her hands and weep in silence without anyone knowing it. But I was not to be fooled. I could see her shoulders heaving, and the tears trickling through her thin white fingers. And even I knew what she was weeping for. It was well for her that father was getting ready to go to synagogue, putting on his sabbath coat that was tattered, but that was still made of silk, and his plaited silk girdle. He thrust his hands into his girdle and said to me, sighing deeply, Come, let us go. It is time we went to synagogue to pray. I took the prayer-books and we went off. Mother remained at home to pray. I knew what she would do, weep. She might weep as much as she liked, for she would be alone. And it was so. When we came back and entered the tabernacle, and father started to make the blessing over the wine, I looked into her eyes and they were red, and had swollen lids. Her nose was shining. Nevertheless, she was to me beautiful as Rachel or Abigail, or the Queen of Sheba, or Queen Esther. Looking at her, I was reminded of all our beautiful Jewish women, with whom I had just become acquainted at Haida. And looking at my mother with her lovely face that looked lovelier above the lovely silk shawl she wore, with her large, beautiful, care-worn eyes. My heart was filled with pain that such lovely eyes should be tear-stained always, that such lovely white hands should have to bake and cook. And I was angry with the Lord because he did not give us a lot of money, and I prayed to the Lord to destine me to find a treasure of gold and diamonds and brilliance. I'll let the Messiah come, and we would go back to the land of Israel, where we should all be happy. This was what I thought. And my imagination carried me far, far away to my golden dreams that I would not exchange for all the money in the world, and the beautiful festival prayers sung by my father in his softest, most melodious voice rang in my ears. Thou hast chosen us above all peoples? Asked Thou hast chosen of all the nations? Is it a trifle to be God's chosen people? To be God's only child? My heart was glad for the happy chosen people, and I imagined I was a prince, yes, a prince, and the tabernacle was a palace. The divine holiness rested on it. My mother was the beautiful daughter of Jerusalem, the Queen of Sheba, and on the morrow we would make a blessing over the most beautiful fruit in the world, the citron. Ah, who could compare with me? Who could compare with me? After father, Moshe for once pronounced the blessing over the wine. It was the same blessing as my father's, but really not. After him, the landlord, Hirschke Montes, pronounced the blessing over the wine. He was a commonplace man, and it was a commonplace blessing. We went to wash our hands, and we pronounced the blessing over the bread. And each of the three women brought out the food for her family. Fine, fresh, seasoned, pleasant, fragrant fish. And each family sat around its own table. There were many dishes. A lot of people had soup. A lot of mouths were eating. A little wind blew into the tabernacle through the frail, thin walls, and the thin roof of fur boughs. The candle spluttered. Every one was eating heartily the delicious festival supper. And I imagined it was not a tabernacle, but a palace. A great, big, brilliantly lit-up palace. And we Jews, the chosen people, the princes, were sitting in the palace, and enjoying the pleasures of life. It is well for you, little Jews, thought I. No one is so well off as you. No one is privileged to sit in such a beautiful palace, covered with green fur boughs, strewn with yellow sand, decorated with the most beautiful tapestries in the world, on the tables, the finest suppers, the real festival fish, which is the daintiest of all dainties. And who speaks of? Suddenly, crash! The whole roof and the fur boughs were on our heads. One wall after another is falling in. A goat fell from on high, right on top of us. It suddenly grew pitch dark. All the candles were extinguished, all the tables were overturned, and we all, with the suppers and the crockery and the goat, were stretched out on the sand. The moon shone and the stars peeped out, and the goat jumped up, frightened, and stood on its thin legs, stock still, while it stared at us with foolish eyes. It soon marched off, like an insolent creature, over the tables and chairs, and over our heads, bleeding. The candles were extinguished, the crockery smashed, the supper in the sand, and we were all frightened to death. The women were shrieking, the children crying. It was a destruction of everything, a real destruction. You built a fine tabernacle, said Hershky Mumsis, in such a voice as if we had had from him for building the tabernacle. Goodness knows how much money. It was a fine tabernacle when one goat could overthrow it. It was a tabernacle for once, replied Moshe for once. He stood up like one beaten, looking upwards to see whence the destruction had come. It was a tabernacle for once. Yes, a tabernacle for once, repeated Hershky Mumsis, in a voice full of deadly venom. And every one echoed his words, all in one voice. A tabernacle for once. CHAPTER XII THE DEAD CITRON My name is Lieb. When I am called up to read the portion of the law, it is by the name of Yehuda Lieb. At home I sign myself Lief Moskovitz. Among the Germans I am known as Heleon. Here in England I am Mr. Leon. When I was a child I was called Liebel. At Heide I was Lieb-Drieb-Obderick. You must know that at Archeide every boy has a nickname. For instance, Mottl Kapottl, Maya Dreyer, Mendel Fendl, Chayam Klayam, Ipsit Shipsik, Beryl Tzap. Did you ever hear such rhymes? That Itsik rhymes with Shipsik, and Mendel with Fendl, and Chayam with Klayam is correct. But what has Beryl to do with Tzap? Or how does Lieb rhyme with Obderick? I did not like my nickname, and I fought against it. I got blows and thumps and smacks and wax and pinches and kicks from all sides. I was black and blue. Because I was the smallest in the Kader, the smallest and the weakest and the poorest, no one defended me. On the contrary, the two rich boys tortured me. One got on top of me, and the other pulled at me by the ear. Whilst the third, a poor boy, sang a song to tease me. Just so, just so, give it to him, punch him, bang him, his little limbs, his little limbs, just so, just so. At such times I lay quiet as a kitten, and when they let me go, I went into a corner and wept silently. I wiped my eyes, went back to my comrades, and all was right again. Just a word. Whenever you meet the name Liebel in the story, you will know it refers to me. I am soft as down, short and fat. In reality, I'm not so fat as I look. On the contrary, I'm rather bony, but I wear thick, wadded little trousers, a thick, wadded vest, and a thick, wadded coat. You see, my mother wants me to be warm. She is afraid I might catch cold, God forbid, and she wraps me in cotton wool from head to foot. She believes that cotton wool is very good to wrap a boy in and must not be used for making balls. I provided all the boys with cotton wool. I pulled it out of my trousers and coats until she caught me. She'd beat me, and whacked me, and thumped me, and pinched me. But Liebel went on doing what he liked, distributing cotton wool. My face is red, my cheeks rather blue, and my nose always running. Such a nose! cries my mother. If he had no nose, he would be all right. He would have nothing to freeze in the cold weather. I often tried to picture to myself what would happen if I had no nose at all. If people had no noses, what would they look like? Then the question is— But I was going to tell you the story of a dead citron, and I have wandered off to goodness-noseware. I will break off in the middle of what I was saying, and go back to the story of the dead citron. My father, Moshe Yankel, has been a clerk at an insurance company's office for many years. He gets five-and-a-half rubles a week. He is waiting for a rise in wages. He says that if he gets his rise this year, please God, he will buy a citron. But my mother, Bassi Bella, has no faith in this. She says the barracks will fall down before father will get a rise. One day, shortly before the New Year, Liebel overheard the following conversation between his father and his mother. He, though the world turn upside down, I must have a citron this year. She, the world will not turn upside down, and you will have no citron. He, that's what you say, but supposing I have already been promised something towards a citron. She, it will have to be written into the books of jests. In the month called after the town of Kremenitz a miracle happened. A bear died in the forest. But what then? If I do not believe it, I shall not be a great heretic either. He, you may believe it or not. I tell you that this feast of tabernacles we shall have a citron of her own. She, O Main, may it be so, from your mouth into God's ears. O Main, O Main, repeated Liebel in his heart, and he pictured to himself his father coming into the synagogue like a respectable householder with his own citron and his own palm branch. And though Moshe Yankel is only a clerk, still when the men walk around the ark with their palms and their citrons, he will follow them with his palm and citron. And Liebel's heart was full of joy. When he came to Kheida he at once told everyone that this year his father would have his own palm and citron. But no one believed him. What do you say to his father? Asked the young scamps of one another. Such a man, such a beggar amongst beggars, desires to have a citron of his own. He must imagine it is a lemon or a grocian apple. That is what the young scamps said, and they gave Liebel a few good smacks and thumps and punches and digs and pushes. And Liebel began to believe that his father was a beggar amongst beggars, and a beggar must have no desires. But how great was his surprise when he came home and found rare pencil sitting at the table in his Napoleonic cap facing his father. In front of them stood a box full of citrons, the beautiful perfume of which reached the furthest corners of the house. The cap which reb pencil wore was the sort of cap worn in the time of Napoleon I. Over there in France these caps were long out of fashion, but in our village there was still one to be found, only one, and it belonged to reb pencil. The cap was long and narrow. It had a slit and a button in front and at the back two tassels. I always wanted these tassels. If the cap had fallen into my hands for two minutes, only two the tassels would have been mine. Reb pencil had spread out his whole stock in trade. He took up a citron with his two fingers and gave it to father to examine. Take this citron, reb Moshe Yankel, you will enjoy it. A good one asked my father, examining the citron on all sides as one might examine a diamond. His hands trembled with joy. And what a good one! replied reb pencil. The tassels of his cap shook with his laughter. Moshe Yankel played with the citron, smelled it, and could not take his eyes off it. He called over his wife to him and showed her with a happy smile the citron, as if he was showing her a precious jewel, a priceless gem, a rare antique, or an only child, a dear one. Bassi Bella drew near and put out her hands slowly to take hold of the citron. But she did not get it. Be careful with your hands a sniff if you like. Bassi Bella was satisfied with the sniff of the citron. I was not even allowed to sniff it. I was not even allowed to go near it, or even to look at it. He is here too, said my mother. Only let him go near it, and he will at once bite the top off the citron. The Lord forbid! cried my father. The Lord preserve us! echoed reb pencil. And the tassels shook again. He gave father some cotton wool into which he might nest the citron. The beautiful perfume spread into every corner of the house. The citron was wrapped up as carefully as if it had been a diamond or a precious gem, and it was placed in a beautiful round, carved, painted, and decorated wooden sugar-box. The sugar was taken out, and the citron was put in instead, like a beloved guest. Welcome thou art, reb citron, into the box, into the box. The box was carefully closed, and placed in the glass cupboard. The door was closed over on it, and goodbye. I am afraid the heathen, that was meant for me, will open the door, take out the citron, and bite its top off, said my mother. She took me by the hand and drew me away from the cupboard. Like a cat that has smelt butter and jumps down from a height for it, straightens her back, goes round and round, rubbing herself against everything, looks into everybody's eyes and licks herself. In like manner did Liebel, poor thing, go round and round the cupboard. He gazed in through the glass door, smiled at the box containing the citron, until his mother saw him, and said to his father, that the young scamp wanted to get hold of the citron, to bite off its top. To Kader, you blaggard, may you never be thought of, you scamp! Liebel bent his head, lowered his eyes, and went off to Kader. The few words his mother had said to his father about his biting off the top of the citron, burned themselves into Liebel's heart, and ate into his bones like a deadly poison. The top of the citron buried itself in Liebel's brains. It did not leave his thoughts for a moment. It entered his dreams at night, wired him, and almost dragged him by the hand. You do not recognise me, foolish boy? It is I, the top of the citron. Liebel turned round on the other side, groaned, and went to sleep. It wired him again. Get up, fool! Go and open the cupboard. Take out the citron and bite me off. You will enjoy yourself. Liebel got up in the morning, washed his hands, and began to say his prayers. He took his breakfast, and was going off to Kader. Passing by, he glanced in the direction of the glass cupboard. Through the glass door he saw the box containing the citron, and he imagined the box was winking at him. Over here! Over here, little boy! Liebel marched straight out of the house. One morning, when Liebel got up, he found himself alone in the house. His father had gone off to business, his mother had gone to the market. The servant was busy in the kitchen. Everyone is gone. There isn't a soul in the house, thought Liebel. Passing by, he again looked inside the glass cupboard. He saw the sugar-box that held the citron. It seemed to be beckoning to him. Over here! Over here, little boy! Liebel opened the glass door softly and carefully, and took out the box. The beautiful, round, carved, decorated wooden box. And raised the lid. Before he had time to lift out the citron, the fragrance of it filled his nostrils, the pungent, heavenly odour. Before he had time to turn around, the citron was in his hand, and the top of it, in his eyes. Do you want to enjoy yourself? Do you want to know the taste of paradise? Take and bite me off. Do not be afraid, little fool. No one will know of it. Not a son of Adam will see you. No bird will tell on you. You want to know what happened? You want to know whether I bit the top off the citron, or held myself back from doing it? I should like to know what you would have done in my place if you had been told ten times not to dare to bite the top off the citron. Would you not have wanted to know what it tasted like? Would you not also have thought of the plan to bite it off and stick it on again with spittle? You may believe me or not, that is your affair, but I do not know myself how it happened. Before the citron was rightly in my hands, the top of it was between my teeth. The day before the festival, father came home a little earlier from his work to untie the palm branch. He had put it away very carefully in a corner, warning Lebel not to attempt to go near it. But it was useless warning him. Lebel had his own troubles. The top of the citron haunted him. Why had he wanted to bite it off? What good had it done him to taste it when it was bitter as gall? It was for nothing he had spoiled the citron and rendered it unfit for use. That the citron could not now be used, Lebel knew very well. Then what had he done this for? Why had he spoiled this beautiful creation, bitten off its head, and taken its life? Why? Why? He dreamt of the citron that night. It haunted him and asked him, Why have you done this thing to me? Why did you bite off my head? I am now useless, useless. Lebel turned over on the other side, groaned and fell asleep again. But he was again questioned by the citron. Murderer! What have you against me? What had my head done to you? The first day of the Feast of Tabernacles arrived. After a frosty night the sun rose and covered the earth with a delayed warmth, like that of a stepmother. That morning Moshe Yankel got up earlier than usual to learn off by heart the festival prayers, reciting them in the beautiful festival melody. That day also Basi Bela was very busy cooking the fish and the other festival dishes. That day also Zalman the carpenter came to our tabernacle to make a blessing over the citron and palm before anyone else so that he might be able to drink tea with milk and enjoy the festival. Zalman wants the palm and the citron, said my mother to my father. Open the cupboard and take out the box, but carefully, said my father. He himself stood on a chair and took down from the top shelf the palm and brought it to the tabernacle to the carpenter. Here make the blessing, he said, but be careful in heaven's name, be careful. Our neighbour Zalman was a giant of a man, may no evil eye harm him. He had two hands, each finger of which might knock down three such libles as I. His hands were always sticky and his nails red from glue, and when he drew one of these nails across a piece of wood there was a mark that might have been made with a sharp piece of iron. In honour of the festival Zalman had put on a clean shirt and a new coat. He had scrubbed his hands in the bath with soap and sand, but had not succeeded in making them clean. They were still sticky and the nails still red with glue. Into these hands fell the dainty citron. It was not for nothing Moshe Ankel was excited when Zalman gave the citron a good squeeze and the palm a good shake. The he careful, be careful, he cried. Now turn the citron head downwards and make the blessing. Carefully, carefully, for heaven's sake, be careful. Suddenly Moshe Ankel threw himself forward and cried out, the cry brought his wife, Bassi Bella, running into the tabernacle. What is it Moshe Ankel God be with you? Coarse, plagued man of the earth, he shouted at the carpenter, and was ready to kill him. How could you be such a coarse, plagued, such a man of the earth? Is a citron an ax, or is it a saw, or a bore? A citron is neither an ax, nor a saw, nor a bore. You have cut my throat without a knife. You have spoiled my citron. Here is the top of it. Here, see, coarse, plagued man of the earth. We were all paralyzed on the instant. Zalman was like a dead man. He could not understand how this misfortune had happened to him. How had the top come off the citron? Surely he held held it very lightly, only just with the tips of his fingers. It was a misfortune, a terrible misfortune. Bassi Bella was pale as death. She wrung her hands and moaned. When a man is unfortunate, he may as well bury himself alive and fresh and well right in the earth. And Liebel? Liebel did not know whether he should dance with joy, because the Lord had performed a miracle for him, released him from all the trouble he had got himself into, or whether he should cry for his father's agony, and his mother's tears, or whether he should kiss Zalman's thick hands with the sticky fingers and the red nails, because he was his redeemer. He is good angel. Liebel looked at his father's face, and his mother's tears, the carpenter's hands, and at the citron that lay on the table, yellow as wax, without a head, without a spark of life, a dead thing, a corpse. A dead citron, said my father, in a broken voice. A dead citron, repeated my mother, the tears gushing from her eyes. A dead citron, echoed the carpenter, looking at his hands. He seemed to be saying to himself, There's a pair of hands for you, may they wither. A dead citron, said Liebel, in a joyful voice. But he caught himself up, fearing his tones might proclaim that he, Liebel, was the murderer, the slaughterer of the citron. by Sholomalechem translated by Hannah Berman and read by Adrian Predzellus Chapter 13 Issue the Beedle, the Shammas When I think of Issue the Beedle, I am reminded of Alexander the Great, Napoleon Bonaparte, and other such giants of history. Issue was not a nobody. He led the whole congregation, the whole town by the nose. He had the whole town in his hand. He was a man who served everybody and commanded everybody. A man who was under everybody, but feared nobody. He had a cross-look, terrifying eyebrows, a beard of brass, a powerful fist, and a long stick. Issue was a name to conjure with. Who made Issue what he was? Ask me an easier question. These are types of whom it can be said they are cast, fixed. They never move out of their place. As you see them the first time, so are they always. It seems they always were, as they are, and will ever remain the same. When I was a child I could not tear myself away from Issue. I was always puzzling out the one question. What was Issue like before he was Issue? That is to say, before he got those terrifying eyebrows, and the big hooked nose that was always filled with snuff, and the big brass beard that started by being thick and heavy, and ended up in a few long, straggling, terrifying hairs. How did he look when he was a child? Ran about barefoot, went to Haida, and was beaten by his teacher. And what was Issue like when his mother was carrying him about in her arms, when she suckled him, wiped his nose for him, and said, Issue, my sweet boy, my beautiful boy, may I suffer instead of your little bones? These were the questions that puzzled me when I was a child, and I could not tear myself away from Issue. Go home, wretches. May the devil take your father and mother. And Issue would not even allow anyone to think of him. Surely I was only one boy. Yeah, Issue called me wretches. You must know that Issue hated to have anyone staring at him. Issue hated little children. He could not bear them. Children, he said, are naturally bad. They are scamps and contradictory creatures. Children are goats that leap into strange gardens. Children are dogs that snap at one's coattails. Children are pigs that crawl on the table. Children should be taught manners. They ought to be made to tremble as with the Agu. And we did tremble as if we had the Agu. Why will we afraid, you ask? Well, would you not be afraid if you were taken by the ear, dragged to the door, and beaten over the neck and shoulders? Go home, wretches. May the devil take your father and mother. You will tell your mother on him? Well, try it. You want to know what will happen? I will tell you. You will go home and show your mother your torn ear. Your mother will pounce on your father. You see how the tyrant has torn the ear of your child, your only son. Your father will take you by the hand of the synagogue and straight over to Issue of the Beedle, as if to say to him, Here, see what you have done to my only son. You have almost torn off his ear. And Issue will reply to my father's unspoken words, Go in health with your wretches. You hear? Even an only son is also wretches. And what can father do? Push his hat on one side and go home. Mother will ask him, Well? And he will reply, I gave it to him, the wicked one, the Heyman. What more could I do to him? It was not at all nice that a father should tell such a big lie, but what is one to do when one is under the yoke of a beadle? One might say that the whole town is under Issue's yoke. He does what he likes. If he does not want to heat the synagogue in the middle of the winter, you may burst arguing with him. He will heed you no more than last year's snows. If Issue wants prayers to start early in the morning, you will be too late whenever you come. If Issue does not want you to read a portion of the law for 18 weeks on end, you may stare at him from to-day till to-morrow or cough until you burst. He will neither see nor hear you. It is the same with your praying-shore, or your prayer-book, or with your citron, or the willow-twigs. Issue will bring them to you when he likes, not when you like. He says that householders are plenty full as dogs, but there is only one beadle. May no evil eye harm him. The congregation is so big, one might go mad. And Issue was proud and haughty. He reduced every one to the level of the earth. The most respectable householder often got it hot from him. It is better for you not to start with me. He said, I have no time to talk to you. There are a lot of you, and I am only one. May no evil eye harm me. And nobody began with him. They were glad that he did not begin with them. Naturally no one would dream of asking Issue or what became of the money donated to the synagogue, or of the money he got for the candles, and the money thrown into the collection boxes. Nor did they ask him any other questions relating to the management of the synagogue. He was the master of the whole concern. And whom was he to give an account to? The people were glad if he left them alone, and that he did not throw the keys into their faces. Here, keep this place going yourselves. Provide it with wood and water, candles and matches. The towels must be kept clean. A slate has to be put on the roof frequently. And the walls and ceiling have to be whitewashed. The stands have to be repaired, and the books bought. And what about the Chanukali lamp? And what of the palm branch and the citron? And where is this, and where is that? And though everyone knew that all the things he mentioned not only did not mean an outlay of money, but were, on the contrary, a source of income. Yet no one dared to interfere. All these belonged to the beetle. They were his means of livelihood. The fine salary I get from you. One's head might grow hard on it. It's only enough for the water for the porridge, said Ishur. And the people were silent. The people were silent, though they knew very well that Reb Ishur was saving money. They knew very well he had plenty of money. It was possible he even lent out money on interest in secret, on good securities, of course. He had a little house of his own, and a garden, and a cow, and he drank a good glass full of brandy every day. In the winter he wore the best fur coat. His wife always wore good boots without holes. She made herself a new cloak not long ago, out of the public money. May she suffer through it for our blood-father in heaven. That's what the villagers muttered softly through their teeth, so that the beetle might not hear them. When he approached, they broke off and spoke of something else. They blinked their eyes, breathed hard, and took from the beetle a pinch of snuff with their two fingers. This excuse me was a nasty excuse me. It was meant to be flattering to convey a sense of excuse me your snuff is surely good, and excuse me give me a pinch of snuff and go in peace. Ishur understood the compliment and also the hint. He knew the people loved him like sore eyes. He knew the people wished to take away his office from him as surely as they wished to live. But he heeded them as little as Heyman heeds the poor in rattles. He had them in his fists, and he knew what to do. He who wants to find favour with everybody will find favour with nobody, and if one has to bow down, let it be to their head not to the feet. Ishur understood these two wise sayings. He sought the favour of the leaders of the community. He did everything they told him to, lay under their feet, and flew on any errand on which they sent him. And he flattered them till it made one sick. There is no need to say anything of what went on at the elections. Then Ishur never rested. Whoever has not seen Ishur at such a time has seen nothing. Covered with perspiration, his hat pushed back on his head, Ishur kneaded the thick mud with his high boots, and with his big stick. He flew from one committee man to another, worked, plotted, planned, told lies, and carried on intrigues and intrigues without an end. Ishur was always first class at carrying on intrigues. He could have brought together a wall and a wall. He could have made mischief in such a way that every person in the town should be enraged with everybody else. Quarrel and abuse his neighbour, and almost come to blows. And he was innocent of everything. You must know that Ishur had the town very cleverly. He thought within himself, argue, quarrel, abuse one another, my friends, and you will forget all about the doings of Ishur the beetle. That they should forget his doings was an important matter to Ishur, because of late the people had begun to talk to him, and to demand from him an account of the money he had taken for the synagogue. And who had done this? The young people, the young wretches he had always hated and tortured. They say that children become men, and men become children. Many generations have grown up, become men, and gone hence. The youngsters become greybeards, the little wretches become self-supporting young men. The young men got married and become householders. The householders became old men, and still Ishur was Ishur. And all at once they grew up a generation that was young, fresh, curious. A generation which was called heathens, insolent, fearless, devils, wretches. The Lord helped and preserved one from them. How does Ishur come to be an overlord? He is only a beetle, he ought to serve us, and not we him. How long more will this old Ishur with the long legs and the big stick rule over us? The account! Where is the account? We must have the account! This was the demand of the new generation that was made up entirely of heathens, insolent ones, fearless ones, devils, and wretches. They shouted in the yard of the synagogue at the top of their voices. Ishur pretended to be deaf, and not to hear anything. Afterwards he began to drive them out of the yard. He extinguished the candles in the synagogue, locked the door, and threw out the boys. Then he tried to turn against them the anger of the householders of the village. He told them of all their misdeeds, that they mocked at old people, and ridiculed the committee men. In proof of his assertions, he showed the men a piece of paper that one of the boys had lost. On it was written a little poem. Who would have thought it? A foolish poem, and yet what excitement it caused in the village! What a revolution! Ah! Ah! It would have been better if Ishur had not found it, or, having found it, had not shown it to the committee men. It would have been far better for him. It may be said that this song was the beginning of Ishur's end. The foolish committee men, instead of swallowing down the poem, and saying no more about it, injured themselves by discussing it. They carried it about from one to the other so long, until the people learned it off by heart. Someone sang it to an old melody, and it spread everywhere. Workmen sang it at their work, cooks in their kitchens, young girls sitting on the doorsteps, mothers sang it to their babies to sleep with it. The most foolish song has a lot of power in it. When the throat is singing, the head is thinking, and it thinks so long until it arrives at a conclusion. Thoughts whirl and whirl and fret one so long, until something results. And when one's imagination is enkindled, a story is sure to grow out of it. The story that grew out of this song was fine and brief. You may listen to it. It may come in useful to you one day. The heathens, insolent ones, fearless ones, devils and wretches, borrowed so long, and worked so hard to overthrow Ishur that they succeeded in arriving at a certain road. Early one morning they climbed into the attic of the synagogue. There they found the whole treasure, a pile of candles, several poods of wax, a score of neutralism, a bundle of prayer-books of different sorts that had never been used. It may be that to you these things would not have been of great value, but to a beetle they were worth a great deal. This treasure was taken down from the attic very ceremoniously. I will let you imagine the picture for yourself. On the one hand Ishur with the big nose, terrifying eyebrows, and the beard of brass that started thick and heavy, and finished up with a few thin, terrifying hairs. On the other hand the young heathens, insolent ones, fearless ones, devils and wretches, dragging out his treasure. But you need not imagine Ishur lost himself. He was not of the people that lose themselves for the least thing. He stood looking on, pretending to be puzzling himself with the question of how these things came to be in the attic of the synagogue. Early next morning the following announcement was written in chalk on the door of the synagogue. Memorial candles are sold here at wholesale price. Next day there was a different description. On the third day still another one. Ishur had something to do. Every morning he rubbed out with a wet rag the inscriptions that covered the whole of the door of the synagogue. Every Sabbath morning, on their desks, the congregants found bundles of letters in which the youngsters accused the beetle and his bought over committeemen of many things. Ishur had a hard time of it. He got the committeemen to issue a proclamation in big letters on parchment. Here all, as there have arisen in our midst a band of hooligans, scamps good for nothings, who are making false accusations against the most respected householders of the village. Therefore we, the leaders of the community, warn these false accusers openly that we most strongly condemn their falsehoods, and if we catch any of them we will punish him with all the severities of the law. Of course the boys at once tore down this proclamation. A second was hung in its place. The boys did not hesitate to hang up a proclamation of their own in its stead, and the men found on their desks fresh letters of accusation against the beetle and the committeemen. In a word it was a period when the people did nothing else but write. The committeemen wrote proclamations, and the boys, the scamps, wrote letters. This went on until the days of mourning arrived, the time of the elections, and there began a struggle between the two factions. On the one side there was Ishur and his patrons, the committeemen. On the other side the youngsters, the heathens, the scamps, and their candidates. Each faction tried to attract the most followers by every means in its power. One faction tried impassioned words, inflamed speeches. The other soft words, roast ducks, dainties, and liberal promises. And just think who won. You will never guess. It was we young scamps who won, and we selected our own committeemen from amongst ourselves, young men with short coats, poor men, beggars. It is a shame to tell it, but we chose working men, ordinary working men. I'm afraid that you are anxious for my story to come to an end. You want to know how long it is going to last? Or would you rather I told you how our new committeemen made up their accounts with the old beetle? Do you want to hear how the poor old beetle was dragged through the whole village by the youngsters with shouting and singing? The boys carried in front of the procession the whole treasure of candles, wax, talisem, and prayer books which they found in the attic of the synagogue. No, I don't think you will expect me to tell you of these happenings. Take revenge of our enemy? Bathe in his blood, so to speak? No. We could not do that. I shall tell you the end in a few words. Last new year I was at home back again in the village of my birth. A lot, a lot of water had flown by since the time I had just told you of. Still I found the synagogue on the same spot, and it had the same ark of the law, the same curtains, the same reader's desk, and the same hanging candlesticks. But the people were different. They were greatly changed. It was almost impossible to recognise them. The old people of my day were all gone. No doubt there were a good many more stones and inscriptions in the Holy Place. The young folks had grown gray. The committeemen were new. The cantor was new. There was a new beetle, and new melodies, and new customs. Everything was new, and new, and new. One day it was Hashanah rubber. The cantor sung with his choir, and the people kept beating their willow twigs against the desks in front of them. It seems this custom has remained unchanged. And I noticed from the distance a very old man, white-haired, doubled up with a big nose and terrifying eyebrows, and a beard that started thick and heavy, but finished up with a few straggling, terrifying hairs. I was attracted to this old man. I went over to him and put out my hand. Peace be unto you, I said. I think you are a red issue of the beetle. The beetle? What beetle? I am not the beetle this long time. I am a bare willow twig this long time. This is what the old man said to me in a tremulous voice, and he pointed to the bare willow twigs at his feet. A bitter smile played around his grizzled beard that started thick and heavy, but finished off with a few straggling, terrifying hairs. End of Chapter 13