 1. A page from the Song of Songs. 2. Bussey is a name. It is the short for Esther Libber. Libusser? Bussey. She is a year older than I, perhaps two years, and both of us together are no more than twenty years old. Now if you please, sit down and think it out for yourself. How old am I, and how old is she? But it is no matter. I will rather give you her history in a few words. My older brother, Benny, lived in a village. He had a mill. He could shoot with a gun, ride on a horse, and swim like a devil. One summer he was bathing in the river, and was drowned. Of him they said the proverb had been invented. All good swimmers are drowned. He left after him the mill, two horses, a young widow, and one child. The mill was neglected. The horses were sold. The young widow married again and went away somewhere far, and the child was brought to us. The child was Bussey. That my father loves Bussey as if she were his own child, and that my mother frets over her as if she were an only daughter, is readily understood. They look upon her as their comfort in their great sorrow. And I? Why is it that when I come from Haida, and do not find Bussey, I cannot eat? And when Bussey comes in there shines a light in every corner. When Bussey talks to me, I drop my eyes. And when she laughs at me, I weep. And when she? I waited long for the dear good feast of Passover. I would be free then. I would play with Bussey in nuts, and run about in the open, go down the hill to the river, and show her the ducks in the water. When I tell her, she does not believe me. She laughs. She never believes me. That is, she says nothing. But she laughs. And I hate to be laughed at. She does not believe that I can climb to the highest tree if I like. She does not believe that I can shoot if I have anything to shoot with. When the Passover comes, the dear good Passover, and we can go out in the free open air away from my father and mother, I shall show her such tricks that she will go wild. The dear good Passover has come. They dress us both in kingly clothes. When we wear shines and sparkles and glitters, I look at Bussey, and I think of the song of songs that I learned for the Passover, verse by verse. Behold, thou art fair, my love. Behold, thou art fair, thou hast dove's eyes within thy locks. Thy hair is as a flock of goats that appear from Mount Gilead. Thy teeth are like a flock of sheep that are even shorn, which come up from the washing, whereof every one bear twins, and none is barren among them. Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and thy speech is comely, thy temples are like a piece of pomegranate within thy locks. But tell me, please, why is it that one looks at Bussey one is reminded of the song of songs? And when one reads the song of songs, Bussey rises to one's mind. A beautiful Passover eve, bright and warm. Shall we go? asks Bussey, and I am all a fire. My mother does not spare the nuts. She fills our pockets, but she makes us promise that we will not crack a single one before the Seder. We may play with them as much as we like. We run off. The nuts rattle as we go. It is beautiful and fine out of doors. The sun is already high in the heavens, and is looking down on the other side of the town. Everything is broad and comfortable and soft and free around and about. In places on the hill and the other side of the synagogue one sees a little blade of grass, fresh and green and living. Screaming and flattering their wings, their fly past us, over our heads a swarm of young swallows. And again I am reminded of the song of songs I learned at school. The flowers appear on the earth, the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land. I feel curiously light. I imagine I have wings and can rise up and fly away. A curious noise comes from town. A roaring, a rushing, a tumult. In a moment the face of the world is changed for me. Our farm is a courtyard. Our house is a palace. I am a prince, bussy a princess. The logs of wood that lie at our door are the cedars and furs of the song of songs. The cat that is warming herself in the sun near the door is a row or a young heart. And the hill on the other side of the synagogue is the mountain of Lebanon. The women and the girls who are washing and scrubbing and making everything clean for the Passover are the daughters of Jerusalem. Everything, everything is from the song of songs. I walk about with my hands in my pockets. The nuts shake and rattle. Bussy walks beside me step by step. I cannot go slowly. I am carried along. I want to fly, to soar through the air like an eagle. I let myself go. Bussy follows me. I jump from one log of wood to the other. Bussy jumps up after me. I am up. She is up. I am down. She is down. Who will tie her first? How long is this to last? asks Bussy. And I answer her in the words of the song of songs. Until the day break and the shadows flee away. Bah, bah, bah! You are tired and I am not. I am glad that Bussy does not know what I know. And I am sorry for her. My heart aches for her. I imagine she is sorrowful. That is her nature. She is glad and joyous, and suddenly she sits down in a corner and weeps silently. My mother comforts her, and my father showers kisses on her. But it is useless. Bussy weeps until she is exhausted. For whom? For her father who died so young, or for her mother who married again and went off without a goodbye? Ah, her mother. When one speaks of her mother to her, she turns all colours. She does not believe in her mother. She does not say an unkind word of her. But she does not believe in her. Of that, I am sure. I cannot bear to see Bussy weeping. I sit down beside her and try to distract her thoughts from herself. I keep my hands in my pockets, rattle my nuts and say to her, Guess what I can do if I like? What can you do? If I like, all your nuts will belong to me. Will you win them off me? We shall not even begin to play. Then will you take them from me? No, they will come to me of themselves. She lifts her beautiful blue eyes to me, her beautiful blue song of song eyes. I say to her, You think I am jesting? Little fool, I know certain magic words. She opens her eyes still wider. I feel big. I explain myself to her like a great man, a hero. We boys know everything. There is a boy at school, Shiker, the blind one we call him. He's blind of one eye. He knows everything in the world, even Kabbalah. Do you know what Kabbalah is? No. How am I to know? I am in the seventh heaven because I can give her a lecture on Kabbalah. Kabbalah, little fool, is a thing that is useful. By means of Kabbalah I can make myself invisible to you whilst I can see you. By means of Kabbalah I can draw wine from a stone and gold from a wall. By means of Kabbalah I can manage that we too shall rise up into the clouds and even higher than the clouds. To rise up in the air with Basi by means of Kabbalah into the clouds and higher than the clouds and fly with her far, far over the ocean, that was one of my best dreams. There on the other side of the ocean live the dwarfs who are descended from the giants of King David's time. The dwarfs who are in reality good-natured folks. They live on sweets and milk of almonds and play all day on little loots and dance all together in a ring romping about. They are afraid of nothing and are fond of strangers. When a man comes to them from our world they give him plenty to eat and drink, dress him in the finest garments and load him with gold and silver ornaments. Before he leaves they fill his pockets with diamonds and rubies which are to be found in their streets like mud in ours. Like mud in the streets? Well, said Basi to me when I had told her all about the dwarfs. Do you not believe it? Do you believe it? Why not? Where did you hear it? Where? At school. Ah, at school. The sun sank lower and lower, tinting the sky with red gold. The gold was reflected in Basi's eyes. They were bathed in gold. I want very much to surprise Basi with Shikah's tricks which I can imitate by means of cabala. But they do not surprise her. On the contrary, I think they amuse her. Why else does she show me her pearl-white teeth? I am a little annoyed, and I say to her, maybe you do not believe me. Basi laughs. Maybe you think I am boasting, all the time inventing lies out of my own head. Basi laughs louder. Oh, in that case I must show her. I know how. I say to her, the thing is you do not know what cabala means. If you knew what cabala was, you would not laugh. By means of cabala, if I like, I can bring your mother here. Yes, yes, and if you beg hard of me, I will bring her this very night, riding on a stick. All at once she stops laughing. A cloud settles on her beautiful face, and I imagine that the sun has disappeared. No more sun, no more day. I am afraid I went a little too far. I had no right to pain her, to speak of her mother. I am sorry for the whole thing. I must wipe it out. I must ask her forgiveness. I creep close to her. She turns away from me. I try to take her hand. I wish to say to her, in the words of the Song of Songs, Return, return, O Sulamite Basi. Suddenly a voice called from the house. Shemak! I am Shemak. My mother is calling me to go to the synagogue with father. To go to the synagogue with one's father on the Passover Eve, is there in the world a greater pleasure than that? What is it worth to be dressed in new clothes, from head to foot, and to show off before one's friends? Then the prayers themselves, the first festival, meaning prayer and blessing. Ah, how many luxuries has the good God prepared for his Jewish children. Shemak! Shemak! My mother has no time. I am coming. I am coming in a minute. I only want to say a word to Basi. No more than a word. I confess to Basi that I told her lies. One cannot make people fly by means of Kabbalah. One may fly oneself. And I will show her after the festival how I can fly. I will rise from this same spot on the logs before her eyes, and in a moment reach the other side of the clouds. From there I will turn a little to the right. You see, there all things end, and one comes upon the shore of the frozen ocean. Basi listens attentively. The sun is sending down its last rays and kissing the earth. What is the frozen sea? asks Basi. You don't know what the frozen sea is? It is a sea whose waters are thick as liver, and salt as brine. No ships can ride on it. When people fall into it, they can never get out again. Basi looks at me with big eyes. Why should you go there? Am I going, little fool? I fly over it like an eagle. In a few minutes I shall be over the dry land, and at the twelve mountains that spit fire. At the twelfth hill, at the very top, I shall come down and walk seven miles until I come to a thick forest. I shall go in and out of the trees until I come to a little stream. I shall swim across the water, and count seven times seven. A little old man with a long beard appears before me and says to me, What is your request? I answer, Bring me the Queen's daughter. What Queen's daughter? asks Basi, and I imagine she is frightened. The Queen's daughter is the princess who was snatched away from under the wedding canopy, and bewitched, and put into a palace of crystal seven years ago. What has that to do with you? What do you mean by asking what it has to do with me? I must go and set her free. You must set her free? Who else? You need not fly so far. Take my advice, you need not. Basi takes hold of my hand, and I feel her little white hand is cold. I look into her eyes, and I see in them the reflection of the red-gold sun that is bidding farewell to the day, the first bright, warm, Passover day. The day dies by degrees. The sun goes out like a candle. The noises of the day are hushed. There is hardly a living soul in the street, and the little windows shine the lights of the festival candles that have just been lit. A curious, a holy stillness wraps us round, Basi and myself. We feel that our lives are fast merging in the solemn stillness of the festival evening. Pshimak! Pshimak! My mother calls me for the third time to go with my father to the synagogue. Do I not know myself that I must go to prayers? I will sit here another minute, one minute no more. Basi hears my mother calling me. She tears her hand from mine, gets up and drives me off. Pshimak! You are cold! You! Go, go! It is time! Go, go! I get up to go. The day is dead. The sun is extinguished. Its gold beams have turned to blood. A little wind blows. A soft, cold wind. Basi tells me to go. I throw a last glance at her. She is not the same, Basi. In my eyes she is different on this bewitching evening. The enchanted princess runs in my head. But Basi does not leave me time to think. She drives me off. I go. I turn round to look at the enchanted princess who is completely merged into the beautiful Passover evening. I stand like one bewitched. She points to me to go, and I imagine I hear her saying to me in the words of the Song of Songs, Make haste, my beloved, and be thou like to a row or a young heart upon the mountains of spices. End of chapter 1. Chapter 2 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, Yudah Shakinda, by Sholom Alechem, translated by Hannah Berman, and read by Adrian Pretzellus. Let winds blow. Let storms rage. Let the world turn upside down. The old oak, which has been standing since the creation of the world, and whose roots reach, God knows where. What does he care for winds? What are storms to him? The old tree is not a symbol. It is a living being. A man whose name is Nachman Veribivka Veribivka. He is a tall Jew, broad-shouldered, a giant. The townspeople are envious of his strength, and make fun of him. Peace unto you. How is a Jew in health? Nachman knows he is being made fun of. He bends his shoulders so as to look more Jewish. But it is useless. He is too big. Nachman has lived in the village a long time. Our Nachman, the peasants call him. They look upon him as a good man with brains. They like to have a chat with him. They follow his advice. What are we to do about bread? Nachman has an almanac, and he knows where the bread will be cheap or dear this year. He goes to the town, and so knows what he is doing in the world. It would be hard to imagine Veribivka without Nachman. Not only was his father vital born in Veribivka, but his grandfather, Arya. He was a clever Jew and a wit. He used to say that the village was called Veribivka because Arya Veribivka lived in it, and because before Veribivka was Veribivka he, Arya Veribivka, was already Arya Veribivka. That's what his grandfather used to say. The Jews of those times. And do you think Arya Veribivka said this for no reason? Arya was not an ordinary man who made jokes without reason. He meant that the catastrophes of his day were Jewish tragedies. At that time they already talked of driving the Jews out of villages, and not only talked but drove them out. All the Jews were driven out, excepting Arya Veribivka. It may be that even the governor of the district could do nothing, because Arya Veribivka proved that according to the law he could not be driven out. The Jews of those times. Certainly if one has inherited such a privilege and is independent one can laugh at the whole world. What did our Nachman Veribivka care about uprisings, the limitations of the pale, of circulars? What did Nachman care about the wicked gentile Kurashka and the papers that he brought from the court? Kurashka was a short peasant with short fingers. He wore a smock and high boots and a silver chain and a watch like a gentleman. He was a clerk of the court and he read all the papers which abused and vilified the Jews. Personally Kurashka was not a bad sort. He was a neighbour of Nachman and pretended to be a friend. When Kurashka had the toothache Nachman gave him a lotion. When Kurashka's wife was brought to bed of a child Nachman's wife nursed her. But for some time, the devil knows why, Kurashka had been reading the anti-Semitic papers and he was an altered man. Esor began to speak in him. He was always bringing home news of new governors, new circulars from the minister and new edicts against Jews. Each time Nachman's heart was torn. But he did not let the gentile know of it. He listened to him with a smile and held out the palm of his hand as if to say when hair grows here. Let governors change. Let ministers write circulars. What concern is it of Nachman Veribivka of Veribivka? Nachman lived comfortably. That is not as comfortably as his grandfather Arya had lived. Those were different times. One might almost say that the whole of Veribivka belonged to Arya. He had the inn, the store, a meal, a granary. He made money with spoons and plates, as they say. But that was long ago. Today all these things are gone. No more inn, no more store, no more granary. The question is why in that case does Nachman live in the village? Where then should he live, in the earth? Just let him sell his house and he will be Nachman Veribivka no more. He will be a dependent, a stranger. As it is he has at least a corner of his own, a house to live and a garden. His wife and daughters cultivate the garden and if the Lord helps them they have greens from the summer and potatoes for the whole winter long after the Passover. But one cannot live on potatoes alone. It is said that one wants bread with potatoes, and when there's no bread a Jew takes his stick and goes through the village in search of business. He never comes home empty-handed. What the Lord destines he buys. Some old iron, a bundle of rags, an old sack, or else a hide. The hide is stretched and dried, and is taken to the town, to Abraham Elijah the tanner. And on all these one either earns or loses money. Abraham Elijah the tanner, a man with a bluish nose and fingers as black as ink, laughs at Nachman because he is so coarsen through living with gentiles that he even speaks like them. Yes, coarsened. Nachman feels it himself. He grows coarser each year. Oh, if his grandfather Reb Arya, peace unto him, could see his grandson. He had been a practical man, but had also been a scholar. He knew whole passages of the Psalms and the prayers off by heart, the Jews of those times. And what does he Nachman know? He can only just say his prayers. It's well he knows that much. His children will know even less. When he looks at his children how they grow to the ceiling broad and tall like himself and can neither read nor write, his heart grows weary. More than all his heart aches for his youngest child, who was called Faitl after his father. He was a clever child, this Faitl. He was smaller in build, more refined, more Jewish than the others. And he had brains. He was shown the Hebrew alphabet once in a prayer book, and he never again confused one letter with the other. Such a fine child to grow up in a village among calves and pigs. He plays Erachka's son, Fedoka. He rides on the one stick with him. They both chase the one cat. They both dig the same hole. They do everything together children can do. Nachman is sorry to see his child playing with the Gentile child. It withers him as if he were a tree that had been stricken by lightning. Fedoka is a smart little boy. He has a pleasant face and a dimple chin and flaxen hair. He loves Faitl, and Faitl does not dislike him. All the winter each child slept on his father's stove. They went to the window and longed for one another. They seldom met. But now the long angry winter is over. The black earth throws off her cold white mantle. The sun shines and the wind blows. A little blade of grass peeps out. At the foot of the hill the little river murmurs. The calf inhales the soft air through distended nostrils. The cock closes one eye and is lost in meditation. Everything around and about has come to life again. Everything rejoices. It is the Passover Eve. Neither Faitl nor Fedoka can be kept indoors. They rush out into God's world, which has opened up for them both. They take each other's hands and fly down the hill that smiles at them. Come here, children. They leap towards the sun that greets them and cause them come, children. When they are tired of running, they sit down on God's earth that knows no Jew and no Gentile, but whispers invitingly. Children, come to me, to me. They have much to tell each other, not having met throughout the whole winter. Faitl boasts that he knows the whole Hebrew alphabet. Fedoka boasts that he has a whip. Faitl boasts that it is the eve of Passover. They have motzes for the whole festival and wine. Do you remember Fedoka I gave you a motzer last year? Motzer, repeats Fedoka. A smile overspreads his pleasant face. It seems he remembers the taste of the motzer. Would you like to have some motzer now, fresh motzer? Is it necessary to ask such a question? Then come with me, says Faitl, pointing up the hill which smiles to them invitingly. They climbed the hill. They gazed at the warm sun through their fingers. They threw themselves on the damp earth which smelled so fresh. Faitl drew out from under his blouse a whole fresh white motzer covered with holes on both sides. Fedoka licked his fingers in advance. Faitl broke the motzer in halves and gave one half to his friend. What do you say to the motzer, Fedoka? What could Fedoka say when his mouth was stuffed with motzer that cracked between his teeth and melted under his tongue like snow? One minute and there was no more motzer. Oh, God! Fedoka threw his grey eyes at Faitl's blouse as a cat looks at butter. What more? asked Faitl, looking at Fedoka through his sharp black eyes. What a question! Then wait a while, said Faitl. Next year you'll get more. They both laughed at the joke. And without a word, as if they had already arranged it, they threw themselves on the ground and rolled down the hill like balls, quickly, quickly downwards. At the bottom of the hill they stood up and looked at the murmuring river that ran away to the left. They turned to the right, going further and further over the broad fields that were not yet green in all places but showed signs of being green soon. They did not yet smell of grass but would smell of grass soon. They walked and walked in silence, bewitched by the loveliness of the earth under the bright smiling sun. They did not walk but swam. They did not swim but flew. They flew like birds that sweep into the soft air of the lovely world which the Lord has created for all living beings. Hush! They are at the windmill which belongs to the village elder. Once it belonged to Nachman Veribivka. Now it belongs to the village elder whose name is Opanas, a cunning gentile with one earring who owns a Samovar. Opanas is a rich epicurean. Along with the mill he has a store, the same store which once belonged to Nachman Veribivka. He took both the mill and the store from the Jew by cunning. The mill went round in its season but this day it was still. There was no wind. A curious pass over Eve without winds. That the mill was not working was so much the better for Phaetal and Fadoka. They could see the mill itself and there was much to see in the mill but to them the mill was not so interesting as the sails and the wheel which turns them whichever way the wind blows. They sat down near the mill and talked. It was one of those conversations which have no beginning and no end. Phaetal told stories of the town to which his father had once taken him. He was at the fair. He saw shops, not a single shop as in Veribivka but lots of shops. And in the evening his father took him to the synagogue. His father had yard site after his father. That means after my grandfather explained Phaetal, do you understand or do you not? Fadoka might have understood but he was not listening. He interrupted with a story that had nothing to do with what Phaetal was talking about. He told Phaetal that last year he saw a bird's nest in a high tree. He tried to reach it but could not. He tried to knock it down with a stick but could not. He threw stones at the nest until he brought down two tiny bleeding fledglings. You killed them? asked Phaetal fearfully and made a rye face. Little ones replied Fadoka. But they were dead. Without feathers yellow beaks little fat bellies. But killed, killed. It was rather late when Phaetal and Fadoka saw by the sun in the heavens that it was time to go home. Phaetal had forgotten that it was the Passover Eve. He remembered then that his mother had to wash him, to dress him in his new trousers. He jumped up and flew home Fadoka after him. They both flew home gladly and joyfully, and in order that one should not be home before the other, they held hands, flying like arrows from bows. When they got to the village, this was the scene which confronted them. Nachman Veribivka's house was surrounded by peasants, men and women, boys and girls, the clerk Karachka, and O'Panas, the village elder, and his wife and the magistrate and policemen, all were there, talking and shouting together. Nachman and his wife were in the middle of the crowd, arguing and waving their hands. Nachman was bent low and was wiping the perspiration from his face with both hands. By his side stood his older children, gloomy and downcast. Suddenly the whole picture changed. Someone pointed to the two children. The whole crowd, including the village elder and the magistrate, the policemen and the clerk stood still like petrified. Only Nachman looked at the people, straightened out his back and laughed. His wife threw out her hands and began to weep. The village elder and the clerk and the magistrate and their wives pounced on the children. Where were you, you so-and-so? Where were we? We were even by the mill. The two friends, Fytal as well as Fadoka, got punished without knowing why. Fytal's father flogged him with his cap. A boy should know. What should a boy know? Out of pity his mother took him from his father's hands. She gave him a few smacks on her own account, and at once washed him and dressed him in his new trousers, the only new garment he had for the Passover. She sighed. Why? Afterwards he heard his father saying to his mother, May the Lord help us to get over this festival in peace. The Passover ought to have gone before it came. Fytal could not understand why the Passover should have gone before it came. He worried himself about this. He did not understand why his father had flogged him and his mother smacked him. He did not understand what sort of a Passover eve it was this day in the world. If Fytal's Jewish brains could not solve the problems, certainly Fadoka's peasant brains could not. First of all his mother took hold of him by the flaxen hair and pulled it. Then she gave him a few good smacks in the face. These he accepted like a philosopher. He was used to them, and he heard his mother talking with the peasants. They told curious tales of a child that the Jews of the town had enticed on the Passover eve, hidden in a cellar a day and a night, and were about to make away with when his cries were heard by passers-by. They rescued him. He had marks on his body, four marks placed like a cross. A cunning peasant woman with a red face told this tale, and the other women shook their shawl-covered heads and crossed themselves. Fadoka could not understand why the women looked at him when they were talking, and what had the tale to do with him and Fytal? Why had his mother pulled his flaxen hair and boxed his ears? He did not care about these. He was used to them. He only wanted to know why he had had such a good share that day. Well, Fytal heard his father remark to his mother immediately after the festival. His face was shining as if the greatest good fortune had befallen him. Well, you fretted yourself to death, you were afraid a woman remains a woman. Our Passover and their Easter have gone, and nothing. Thank God! replied his mother, and Fytal could not understand what his mother had feared, and why were they glad that the Passover was gone? Would it not have been better if the Passover had been longer and longer? Fytal met Fadoka outside the door. He could not contain him, but told him everything, how they had prayed and how they had eaten. Oh, how they had eaten! He told him how nice all the Passover dishes were, and how sweet the wine. Fadoka listened attentively and cast his eyes on Fytal's blouse. He was still thinking of Matzo. Suddenly there was a scream and a cry in a high-pitched soprano. Fadoka! Fadoka! It was his mother calling him in for supper, but Fadoka did not hurry. He thought she would not pull his hair now. First of all, he had not been at the mill. Secondly, it was after the Passover. After the Passover there was no need to be afraid of the Jews. He stretched himself on the grass on his stomach, propping his white head with his hands. Opposite him lay Fytal, his black head propped up by his hands. The sky is blue. The sun is warm. The little wind fans one and plays with one's hair. The little calf stands close by. The cock is also near with his wives. The two heads, the black and the white, are close together. The children talk and talk and talk and cannot finish talking. Nachman Veribivka is not at home. Early in the morning he took his stick and let himself go over the village in search of business. He stopped at every farm, bowed the Gentiles in the morning, calling each one by name and talked with them on every subject in the world. But he avoided all reference to the Passover incident and never even hinted at his fears of the Passover. Before going away he said, Perhaps friend you have something you would like to sell. Nothing, Lachman, nothing. Old iron, rags, an old sack or a hide. Do not be offended, Lachman, there is nothing. Bad times. Bad times you drank everything maybe, such a festival. Who drank? What drank bad times? The Gentiles sighed. Lachman also sighed. They talked of different things. Lachman would not have the other know that he came only on business. He left that Gentile and went to another, to a third, until he came upon something. He would not return home empty-handed. Lachman Veribivka loaded and perspiring, tramped home, thinking only of one problem. How much he was going to gain or lose that day. He has forgotten the Passover Eve incident. He has forgotten the fears of the Passover. The clerk Karachka and his governors and circulars have gone clean out of the Jews' head. Let the winds blow. Let the storms rage. Let the world turn upside down. The old oak which has been standing since the creation of the world and whose roots reach, God knows where. What does he care for winds? What are storms to him? End of chapter 2. Chapter 3 of Jewish Children by Sholom 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 by Sholom translated by Hannah Berman and read by Adrian Pretzelis. Chapter 3. El Yahu the Prophet It is not good to be an only son to be fretted over by father and mother to be the only one left out of seven. Don't stand here. Don't go there. Don't drink that. Don't eat the other. Cover up your throat. Hide your hands. It is not good. Not good at all to be an only son and a rich man's son into the bargain. My father is a money-changer. He goes about amongst the shopkeepers with a bag of money, changing copper for silver and silver for copper. That is why his fingers are always black and his nails broken. He works very hard. Each day when he comes home he is tired and broken down. I have no feet, he complains to mother. I have no feet, not even the sign of a foot. No feet? It may be. For that again he has a fine business. That's what the people say and they envy us that we have a good business. Mother is satisfied. So am I. We shall have a Passover this year. May all the children of Israel have the like father in heaven. That is what my mother said, thanking God for the good Passover. And I also was thankful. But shall we ever live to see it, this same Passover? Passover has come at last. The dear, sweet Passover. I was dressed as befitted the son of a man of wealth like a young prince. But what was the consequence? I was not allowed to play or run about lest I caught cold. I must not play with poor children. I was a wealthy man's boy. Such nice clothes and I had no one to show off before. I had a pocket full of nuts and no one to play with. It is not good to be an only child and fretted over. The only one left out of seven and a wealthy man's son into the bargain. My father put on his best clothes and went off to the synagogue. Said my mother to me, Do you know what? Lie down and have a sleep. You will then be able to sit up at the seder and ask the four questions. Was I mad? Would I go to sleep before the seder? Remember, you must not sleep at the seder. If you do, Eliyahu the Prophet will come down with a bag on his shoulders. On the two first nights of Passover Eliyahu the Prophet goes about looking for those who have fallen asleep at the seder and takes them away in his bag. Ha-ha! Will I fall asleep at the seder? I? Not even if it were to last the whole night through. Not even to broad daylight. What happened last year, mother? Last year you fell asleep soon after the first blessing. Why did Eliyahu the Prophet not come then with his bag? Then you were very small. Now you are big. Tonight you must ask father the four questions. Tonight you must say with father slaves are we. Tonight you must eat with us fish and soup and mozzables. Hush! Here is father, back from the synagogue. Good Yom Tov! Good Yom Tov! Thank God father made the blessing over the wine. I too. Father drank the cup full of wine. So did I, a cup full to the very dregs. See, to the dregs, said mother to father. To me, she said, a full cup of wine you will drop off to sleep. Ha-ha! Will I fall asleep? Not even if I were to sit up all night or even to broad daylight. Well, said my father. How are you going to ask the four questions? How will you recite the Haggadah? How will you sing with me slaves were we? My mother never took her eyes off me. She smiled and said, you will fall asleep, fast asleep. Oh mother, mother, if you had eighteen heads you would surely fall asleep if someone sat opposite you and sang in your ears, fall asleep, fall asleep. Of course, I fell asleep. I fell asleep and dreamt that my father was already saying, pour out thy wrath. My mother herself got up from the table and went to open the door to welcome Eliyahu the prophet. It would be a fine thing if Eliyahu the prophet did come as my mother had said with a bag on his shoulders and if he said to me, come boy. And who else would be to blame for this but my mother with her fall asleep, fall asleep? And as I was thinking these thoughts I heard the creaking of the door. My mother stood up and cried, Blessed art thou who comes in the name of the Eternal. I looked toward the door. Yes, it was he. He came in so slowly and so softly that one scarcely heard him. He was a handsome man, Eliyahu the prophet, an old man with a long grizzled beard reaching to his knees. This was yellow and wrinkled, but it was handsome and kindly without end. And his eyes, ah, what eyes! Kind, soft, joyous, loving, faithful eyes. He was bent in two and leaned on a big, big stick. He had a bag on his shoulders and silently, softly he came straight to me. Now, little boy, get into my bag and come. So said to me the old man, but in a kind voice and softly and sweetly. I asked him, where to? And he replied, you will see later. I did not want to go and he said to me again, come. And I began to argue with him. How can I go with you when I am a wealthy man's son? Said he to me, and as a wealthy man's son, of what great value are you? Said I, I am the only child of my father and mother. Said he, to me you are not an only child. Said I, I am fretted over. If they find that I am gone, they will not get over it. They will die, especially my mother. He looked at me, the old man did, very kindly, and he said to me softly and sweetly as before, if you do not want to die, then come with me. Say good-bye to your father and mother, and come. But how can I come when I am an only child, the only one left alive out of seven? Then he said to me more sternly, for the last time, little boy, choose one of the two. Either you say good-bye to your father and mother, and come with me, or you remain here but fast asleep for ever and ever. Having said these words, he stepped back from me a little, and was turning to the door. What was to be done? To go with the old man God knows where and get lost would mean the death of my father and mother. I am an only child, the only one left alive out of seven. To remain here and fall asleep for ever and ever, that would mean I myself must die. I stretched out my hand to him, and with tears in my eyes I said, Eliyahu the Prophet, dear, kind, loving, darling, Eliyahu, give me one minute to think. He turned towards me his handsome, yellow, wrinkled old face with its grizzled beard reaching to his knees, and looked at me with his beautiful, kind, loving, faithful eyes, and he said to me with a smile, I will give you one minute to decide my child. But no more than one minute. I ask you, what should I have decided to do in that one minute so as to save myself from going with the old man and also to save myself from falling asleep forever? Well, who can guess? translated by Hannah Berman and read by Adrian Prezellus Chapter 4 Getzel Sit down and I will tell you a story about nuts. About nuts, about nuts, about nuts. Now, wartime? Just because it's wartime, because your heart is heavy, I want to distract your thoughts from the war. In any case, when you crack a nut, you find a kernel. His name was Getzel, but they called him Goitzel. Whoever had God in his heart made fun of Getzel, ridiculed him. He was considered a bit of a fool. Amongst us schoolboys, he was looked upon as a young man. He was a clumsily built fellow, had extremely coarse hands and thick lips. He had a voice that seemed to come from an empty barrel. He wore wide trousers and big top boots, like a bear. His head was as big as a kneading trough. This head of his, Rabbi Ankel used to say, was stuffed with hay or feathers. The Rebbe frequently reminded Getzel of his great size and awkwardness. Goitzel, coarse being, bullock's skin, and other such nicknames were bestowed on him by the teacher, and he never seemed to care a wrap about them. He hid in a corner, puffed out his cheeks, and bleated like a calf. You must know that Getzel was fond of eating. Food was dearer to him than anything else. He was a mere stomach. The master called him a glutton, but Getzel didn't care about that either. The minute he saw food, he thrusted into his mouth, and chewed and chewed vigorously. He had sent to him, to the Cheda, the best of everything. This great, clumsy fool was, along with everything else, his wealthy mother's darling, her only child, and she took the greatest care of him. Day and night she stuffed him like a goose, and was always wailing that her child ate nothing. He ought to have the evil eye averted from him, our teacher used to say, behind Getzel's back, of course, to the devil with his mother, the teacher's wife used to add in such a voice, and making such a grimace over her words that it was impossible to keep from laughing. In Pelotia they keep such children in swaddling clothes, may he suffer instead of my old bones? May I live longer than his head? The teacher put in, after her, and pulled Getzel's cap down over his ears. The whole Cheda laughed. Getzel sat silent. He was sulky, but kept silent. It was hard to get him into a temper, but when he did get into a temper, he was terrible. Even an angry bear could not be fiercer than he. He used to dance with passion, to bite his own big hands with his strong white teeth. If he gave one a blow, one felt it. One enjoyed it. This the boys knew very well. They had tasted his blows, and they were terribly afraid of him. They did not want to have anything to do with him. You know that Jewish children have a lot of respect for beatings, and in order to protect themselves against Getzel all the ten boys had kept united, ten against one. And that was how it came about, that there were two parties at Rebiankel's Cheda. On the one side all the pupils, on the other side Getzel. The boys kept their wits about them. Getzel his fists. The boys worked at their lessons. Getzel ate continually. It came to pass that on a holiday the boys got together to play nuts. Playing nuts is a game like any other, neither better than tops nor worse than cards. The game is played in various ways. There are holes and bank and caps, but every game finishes up in the same way. One boy loses, another wins. And as always, he who wins is a clever fellow, a smart fellow, a good fellow, and he who loses is a good-for-nothing, a fool, and a ne'er-do-well, just as it happens in the big cities, at the clubs, where people sit playing cards night and day. The ten boys got together in the Cheda to play nuts. They turned over a bench, placed a row of nuts on the floor, and began rolling other nuts downwards. Whoever knocked the most nuts out of the row won the whole lot. Suddenly the door opened, and Getzel came in, his pockets loaded with nuts as usual. "'Welcome out, thou, a Jew!' cried one of the boys. "'If you speak of the Messiah,' put in a second. "'Viv Heyman!' cried a third. "'And Rush, he says, the devil brought him here,' cried a fourth. "'What are you playing? Bank? Then I'll play, too!' said Getzel, to which he got an immediate reply. "'No, with a little cap. Why not? Just for that.' "'Then I won't let you play.' He didn't hesitate a moment, but scattered the nuts about the floor with his bears' paws. The boys got angry, the cheek of the rascal. "'Boys, why don't you do something?' asked one. "'What shall we do?' asked the second. "'Let's break his bones for him,' suggested a third. "'All right, try it on,' cried Getzel. He turned up his sleeves, ready for work, and there took place a battle, a fight between the two parties. On the one side was the whole chader, on the other, Getzel. Ten is not one. It was true they felt what Getzel's fists tasted like. Bruises and marks around the eyes were the portion of the ten. But for that again they gave him a good taste of the world with their sharp nails and their teeth and every other thing they could. From the front and from the back and from all sides he got blows and kicks and pulls and thumps and bites and scratches. Well, ten is not one. They overcame him. Getzel had to get himself off, disappear, and now begins the real story of the nuts. After he left the chader, bruised and scratched and torn and bleeding, Getzel stood thinking for a while. He clapped his hands on his pockets and there was heard the rattling of nuts. "'You don't want to play nuts with me? Then may the angel of death play with you.' "'I want you for ten thousand sacrifices. I can manage. We too will play ourselves.' That is what Getzel said to himself. The next minute he was off like the wind. He stopped in the middle of the road to say aloud as if there were some on with him. "'We're two. Where, for instance, shall we go, Getzel?' And at once he answered himself, "'There, far outside the town, on the other side of the mill, there we shall be alone, the two of us. No one will disturb us, let any one attempt to disturb us, and we will break bones and make an end.' Talking with himself, Getzel felt that he was not alone. He was not one, but two, and he felt as strong as two. Let the boys dare to come near him and he would break them to atoms. He would reduce them to a dust heap. He enjoyed listening to his own words and did not stop talking to himself as if he really had someone beside him. "'Listen to me. How far are we going to go?' He asked himself, and then he answered himself almost in a strange voice. "'Well, it all depends on you.' "'Perhaps we ought to sit down here and play nuts. "'Well, what do you say, Getzel? "'It's all the same to me.' Getzel sat down on the ground, far beyond the town, behind the mill, took out the nuts, countered them, divided them in two equal parts, put one lot in his right-hand pocket and the other in his left. He took off his cap and threw into it a few nuts from his right-hand pocket. He said to himself, "'They imagine I can't get on without them. "'Listen, Getzel, what game are we playing? "'I don't know. Whatever game you like. "'Then let us play odd or even.' "'I'm quite willing.' He shook his cap. "'Now guess, odd or even. "'Well, speak out,' he said to himself. He dug his elbow into his own ribs and said to himself, "'Even?' "'Even, did you say? "'Who thrashed you? You have lost. Hand over three nuts.' He took three nuts from his left-hand pocket and put them into the right. Again he shook the cap and again he asked, "'Odd or even this time?' "'Odd.' "'Did you say odd? May you suffer forever. Hand them over here. You have lost four nuts.' He changed four nuts from his left-hand pocket to the right, shook the cap and said again, "'Well, maybe you're guessed right now. Odd or even?' "'Even.' "'Even, did you say? May your bones rot. You rascal. Hand out here five nuts.' "'Isn't it enough that I lose? Why do you curse me? Whose fault is it that you are a fool and guess as a blind man guesses a whole?' "'Well, say again. Odd or even. "'This time you must be right.' "'Even.' "'Even.' "'May you live long. Hand out seven nuts. You fool and guess again. Odd or even?' "'Even.' "'Again even. May you be my father good for nothing. Hand over five more nuts and guess again. Maybe you'll guess right for once. Odd or even.' "'Why are you silent, eh?' "'I have no more nuts.' "'It's a lie you have.' "'As I am a Jew, I haven't.' "'Just look in your pocket like this.' "'There isn't even a sign of one.' "'None? Lost all the nuts? Well, what good has it done you? Aren't you a fool?' "'Enough. You have won all my nuts and now you torment me.' "'It's good. It's all right. You wanted to win all my nuts and I have won yours.' Goetzel was well satisfied that Goetzel had lost. Whilst he, Goetzel, had won. He felt it was doing him good to win. He felt equal to winning all the nuts in the whole world. "'Where are they now, the Haider boys? I would have got my own back from them. I would not have left them the smallest nut, not even for a cure. They would have died here on the ground in front of me.' Goetzel grew angry, fierce. He closed his fists, clenched his teeth, and spoke to himself just as if there was someone beside him. "'Well, try now. Now that I am not by myself. Now that there are two of us. Well, Goetzel, why are you sitting there like a bridegroom? Let's play nuts another little while.' "'Nuts? Where have I nuts? Didn't I tell you I haven't a single one?' "'Oh, I forgot that you have no more nuts. Do you know what I would advise you, Goetzel? For instance, have you any money?' "'I have, but what of that?' "'Buy nuts from me.' "'What do you mean by saying I should buy nuts off you?' "'Fool, don't you know what buying means? Give me money, and I'll give you nuts, eh?' "'Well, I agree to that.' He took from his purse a silver coin, bargained about the price, countered a score of nuts from the right-hand pocket to the left, and the play began all over again. An experienced card-player the story goes, half an hour before his death called his son, or so a gambler, to his bedside and said to him, "'My child, I am going from this world. We shall never meet again. I know you play cards, you have my nature. You may play as much as you like. Only take care not to play yourself out.'" These words are almost a law. There is nothing worse in the world than playing yourself out. Experienced people say it deprives a man even of his last shirt. It drives a man to desperate acts, and one cannot hope to rise at the resurrection after that. So people say. And so it happened with our young man. He worked so long, shaking his cap, odd or even, taking from one pocket and putting into the other, until his left-hand pocket hadn't a single nut in it. "'Well, why don't you play? I have nothing to play with. Again, you have no nuts good for nothing. You say I am a good for nothing, and I say you are a cheat. If you call me a cheat again, I will give you a clout in the jaw. Let the Lord put it into your head.'" Getzel sat quiet for a few minutes, scraping the ground with his fingers, digging a hole and muttering a song under his breath. Then he said, "'Dirty thing, let us play nuts. Where have I nuts? Haven't you money? I will sell you another ten. Money? Where have I money? No money and no nuts. Ah, I can't stand it! The laugh echoed over the whole field and re-echoed in the distant wood." Getzel was convulsed with laughter. "'What are you laughing at? You goitzel you?' he asked himself, and he answered himself in a different voice. I am laughing at you good for nothing. Isn't it enough that you lost all my nuts on me? Why did you want to go and lose my money as well? Such a lot of money, you fool of fools! Ah, I can't get over it! Ha, ha, ha!' You yourself brought me to it. You wicked one of wicked ones! You scamp! You rascal! Fool of the night! If I were to tell you to cut off your nose, would you do it? You idiot! You animal with the horses face you! Ha, ha, ha!' Be quiet at any rate, you goitzel you, and let me not see your forbidding countenance.' And he turned away from himself, sat sulkily for a few minutes, scraping the earth with his fingers. He covered the hole he had made, and he sang a little song under his breath. "'Do you know what I will tell you, Getzel?' he said to himself a few minutes later. "'Let us forgive one another. Let us be friends. The Lord helped me. It was my luck to win so many nuts. May no evil I harm them. Why should we not enjoy ourselves? Let's crack a few nuts. I should think they are not bad. Well, what do you say, Getzel?' "'Yes, I think they ought not to be bad,' he answered himself. He thrust the nut into his mouth, a second, a third. Each time he banged his teeth with his fists. The nut was cracked. He took out a fat kernel, cleaned it round, threw it back in his mouth, and chewed it pleasurably with his strong white teeth. He crunched them as a horse crunches oats. He said to himself, "'Would you like the kernel of a nut, Getzel?' "'Speak out. Do not be ashamed.' "'Why not?' That was how he answered himself. He stretched out his left hand, but only smacked it with his right. "'Will you have a plague?' "'Let it be a plague.' "'Then have two.' And he did not cease from cracking the nuts and crunching them like a horse. It was not enough that he sat eating and gave none to the other. But he said to him, "'Listen, Getzel, to what I will ask you. How, for example, do you feel while I am eating and you are only looking on?' "'How do I feel? May you have such a year?' "'I see you have got a temper. Here is a kernel for you.' And Getzel's right hand gave the left a kernel. The right turned upside down. The left hand smacked the right. The left hand smacked the right cheek. Then the right hand smacked the left cheek twice. The left hand caught hold of the right lapel of his coat, and the right hand at once tore off the left lapel from top to bottom. The left hand pulled the right earlock. The right hand gave the left ear a terrible bang. "'Let go of my earlock, Getzel. Take my advice and let go of my earlock. A plague! Then you'll have no earlock, Getzel. Then you, Getzel, will have no ear. Oh! Oh! Oh!' Epilogue For several minutes our Getzel rolled on the ground. Now he lay right side up, and now he lay left side up. He held his pocket full of nuts with both hands. One minute Getzel was victorious, the next it was Getzel, until he got up from the ground covered with dirt like a pig. He was torn to pieces, had a bleeding ear and a torn earlock. He took all the nuts from his pocket, and threw them into the mud of the river far away behind the mill. He muttered angrily, "'That's right. It's a good deed. Neither you nor me.'" End of Chapter 4 Chapter 5 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 by Sholom Alechem Translated by Hannah Berman And read by Adrian Pretzelis Chapter 5 A Lost Lagba-Omer Our teacher, Reb Nissel, the small one, so-called on account of his size, allowed himself to be led by the nose by his assistants. Whatever they wanted, they got. When the first assistant said children were to be sent home early that day, he sent them home early. The second assistant said the boys would turn the world upside down and ought to be kept at school, and he kept them at school. He could never decide anything for himself. That was why his assistants controlled the school and not he. At other schools the assistants teach the children to wash their hands and say the blessing. At our school the assistants would not do this for us, nor fetch us our meals, nor take us to school on their shoulders. No, they like to go for our meals. They ate them themselves on the road. We did not dare to tell the master of this. The assistants kept us in fear and trembling. If a boy whispered a word of their doings to the teacher, he would be flogged, his skin would be cut. Once a daring boy told the master something and the assistant beat him so terribly that he was laid up in a bed for months. He warned the boys never to tell the master anything, no matter what the assistants did. This period of our school days might be called the tyranny of the assistants. And it came to pass that we were under the yoke of the assistants. One year we had a cold lagbo mare. It was a cold wet may, such as we sometimes had in our town, Mazepevka. The sun barely showed itself. A sharp wind blew, brought us clouds, tore open our coats and threw us off our feet. It was not pleasant out of doors. Just then the assistants took it into their heads to take us for a walk outside the town so that we might play at wars with swords and pop guns and bows and arrows. It is an old custom amongst Jewish children to become warlike on the lagbo mare. They arm themselves from head to foot with wooden swords, pop guns and bows and arrows. They take food with them and go off to wage war. The Jewish children, who are the whole year round closed up in small khalerim, are impressed by fears of the master and trembling under the whips of the assistants. When lagbo mare comes round and they may go out into the open, armed from head to foot, imagine that they are giants who can overcome the strongest foe and reduce the world to ruins. All at once they grow brave. They step forward eagerly, singing songs that are a curious mixture of Yiddish and Russian. One, two, three, four. Jewish children, learn the Torah. Believe in miracles. Are not afraid. Here, O Israel. Nothing matters. We are not afraid of anyone except in God. And we carried out the old custom. We took down our swords of last year from the attic and we made bows from the hoops of old wine barrels. Pop guns the assistants provided us with. For money, of course. Fine guns, with which one could shoot flies if they only stood still long enough. In a word we had all the Jewish weapons to frighten tiny infants to death. And we provided ourselves with food in good earnest, each boy as much as the Lord had blessed him with and his mother would give him out of her generosity. We arrived at Haida armed from head to foot and our pockets bulging out with good things. Rolls, cakes, boiled eggs, goose fat, cherry wine, fruit, fowls, livers, tea and sugar and preserves and jam and also many grossions in money. Each boy tried to show off by bringing the best and the largest quantity and we wished to please the assistants. They praised us and said we were very good boys. They took our food and put it in their bags. They placed us in rows like soldiers and commanded us. Jewish children take hands and march across the bridge straight for the Mesritza fields. There you will meet the sea-cats and do battle with them. Hurrah for the sea-cats! we shouted in one voice. We took hands and went forward like giants, strong and courageous. We called the free school boys sea-cats because they were short little children in the ABC class. They appeared to us humash boys like flies, ants. We imagined that with one blow, phew, we would make an end of them. We were certain that when they saw us, how we were armed from head to foot with swords and bows and arrows and pop-guns, they would surely fly away. It was no trifle to encounter such giants. You play with humash boys, warriors with long legs. We had never fought the sea-cats before, but we had every reason to believe we were convinced we would conquer these squirrels with a glance, destroy them and make an end of them. Along with giving them a good licking, we would take spoil from them, that is to say their food, and let them go hungry. We were so full of our own courage and so enthusiastic about the brave deeds we were going to do that we pushed each other forward, clapped each other on the shoulder. Then too the assistants urged us forward. Why do you crawl like insects? They asked us. They themselves stopped frequently, opened the bag, tasted our food and cherry wine, which they praised highly. Excellent cherry wine, they said, passing round the bottles of the liquid gurgled down their throats. Splendid liquor, the best I ever tasted. That is what the assistants said. They actually licked their fingers. They remained in the distance, but indicated with their hands that we must go forward, forward. We went on and on over the wide Mesritza fields, though the wind blew stronger and stronger. The sky grew black with clouds and a cold, thick rain beat into our faces. Our hands were blue with the cold. Our boots squelched in the mud. We had long given up singing songs. We were tired and hungry, very hungry. We decided to sit down and rest and have something to eat. Where are the assistants? Where is the food? Where is it? The boys began to murmur against the assistants. It is a dirty trick to take all our food from us and our cherry wine and our few grossions and to leave us here in the desert cold and hungry. May the devil take them. May a bad end come to the assistants. May the cholera strike down all the assistants in the world. May they be the sacrifices for our tiniest nails. Hush! Let there be silence. Here come our foes, our enemies. Little squirrels with big sticks. The sea-cats, the sea-cats. Hurrah for the sea-cats! The moment we saw them, we rushed towards them like fierce, starving wolves. We were ready to tear them to pieces. But there happened to us a misfortune, a great misfortune which no one could possibly have foreseen. If it is not destined, neither wisdom nor strength nor smartness are of any avail. Listen to what can happen. The sea-cats, though they were small, short little squirrels, were evidently no fools. Before going to do battle on the broad Meritzer Field, they had prepared themselves well at home, gone through their drill. Afterwards they fed up. They also took with them warm clothing and rubber-glosses. They were armed from head to foot, no worse than we were, with swords and pop-guns and bows and arrows. They would not wait until we had taken the offensive. They attacked us first and began to break our bones. And how do you think? From all sides at once, and so suddenly that we had no time to look about us. Before we realized it, they were upon us. They were not alone, but had their assistance to urge them on and encourage them. Pay out, the Chumash boys! Beat them, the boys, with the long legs. Naturally we were not silent either. We stood up against the squirrels like giants, beat them with our swords, aimed our arrows at them, and shot at them with our pop-guns. But alas! Our swords were dull as wood. And before we could set our bows, they had thrashed us. I say nothing of the guns. What can you do with a pop-gun if the foe will not wait until you have taken aim at him? They rushed forward and knocked the guns out of our hands. What could we do? We had to throw away our weapons, our swords and pop-guns and bows and arrows, and fight as the Lord has ordained. That is to say, we fought with our fists. But we were hungry and tired and cold, and fought without a plan because our assistance had remained behind. They let us fight whilst they ate our food and drank our cherry wine. The devil take them. And they, the little squirrels, well-fed and well-clad, had crept upon us from three sides at once, each moment growing stronger and stronger, they rained down on us blows and thumps and digs, the same blows that we had reckoned on giving them, they gave us. And their assistance went in front of them and never ceased from urging them on. Pay back the humash boys. Beat them, beat them, the boys with their long legs. It was the first to turn his back on the enemy. It would be hard to say. I only know we ran quickly, held the skelter back home, back to Mazpevka, and they, the little squirrels, may they burn, ran after us, shouting and yelling and laughing at us, right on top of us. Hurrah, humash boys! Hurrah, big boys! We arrived home exhausted, ragged, bruised, beaten, and we giants imagined that our parents would pity us, give us cakes because of the blows we got. But it turned out we were mistaken. No one thought of us. We thanked God that we were so fortunate as to escape without beatings from our parents for our torn clothes and twisted boots. But next morning we got a good whipping from our teacher, Nissell, the small one, for the bruises we had on our foreheads and the blue marks around her eyes. It is shameful to tell it. We were each whipped in the true style. This was a mere addition, as if we had not had enough. We were not sorry for anything, but that the assistance gave us another share. When a father or a mother beats one, it is out of kindness. When a teacher beats one, it is because he is a teacher. And what is his rod for, anyway? But the assistance, our curses upon them, as if it were not enough that they had eaten all our food and drunk our cherry wine, may they suffer for it, father of the universe, as if it were not enough that they had left us to fight alone in the middle of the field. But when they were whipping us they held our feet so that we might not kick, either. And that was how our holiday ended up. It was a dark, dreary, lost, lag-ba-omair. End of Chapter 5. Chapter 6 of Jewish Children by Sholam 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, Yudhishakinda by Sholam Alechem, translated by Hannah Berman and read by Adrian Pretzelis. Chapter 6. Murderers. Is he still snoring? And how snoring? May he perish? Wake him up! Wake him up! Libri Bob Derrick! Get up, my little bird! Open your little eyes! I barely managed to open my eyes, raise my head and look about me. I saw a whole crowd of rascals, my school fellows. The window was open and along with their sparkling eyes I saw the first rays of the bright, warm early morning sun. I looked about me on all sides. Just see how he looks, like a sinner. Did you not recognise us? Have you forgotten that it is lag-ba-omair today? The words darted through all my limbs like a flash of lightning. I was carried out of bed by them. In the twinkling of an eye I was dressed. I went in search of my mother who was busy with the breakfast and the younger children. Mother, today is lag-ba-omair. A good yom tov to you. What do you want? I want something for the party. What am I to give you? My troubles or my aches? So said my mother to me. Nevertheless, she was ready to give me something towards the party. We bargained about it. I wanted a lot. She would only give a little. I wanted two eggs. Said she, a suffering in the bones. I began to grow angry. She gave me two smacks. I began to cry. She gave me an apple to quieten me. I wanted an orange. Said she, greedy boy, what will you want next? And my friends on the other side were kicking up a row. Will you ever come out or not? Leave, tree, Bob Derrick. The day's flying quicker, quicker. Like the wind. After much arguing I got round my mother. I snatched up my breakfast and my share of the party and flew out of the house fresh, lively, joyful to my waiting comrades. All together we flew down the hill to the hayder. The hayder was full of noise and tumult and shouting that reached to the sky. A score of throats shouted at one time. The table was covered with delicacies. We had never had such a party as we were going to have that Lagba-Omer. We had wine and brandy for which we had to thank Beryl Yossel, the wine merchant's son. He had brought a bottle of brandy and two bottles of wine for himself. His father had given him the brandy but the wine he had taken himself. What do you mean by saying he took it himself? Don't you understand, peasant's head? He took it from the shelf when no one was looking. Gracious me, that means he stole. Fool of the night. Well, what then? What do you mean? Then he is a thief. For the sake of the party, fool. Is it a good deed to steal for that? Certainly. What do you say to the wise one of the four questions? Where is it written? He wants us to tell him where it is written. Tell him it is written in the book of jests. In the chapter called And He Took. Beginning with the word Bim-Bom. Ha-ha! Hus-children. Mazepa comes. There was silence. We were sitting around the table quiet as lambs, like angels, golden children who could not count to and whose souls were innocent. Mazepa was the teacher's name. That is to say his real name was Baruch Moshe. He had come to our town from Mazepevka not long before and the people called him Mazepevka. We boys shortened his name to Mazepa and when pupils crowned their teacher with such a lovely name he must be worthy of it. Let me introduce him. He is small, thin, dried up, hideously ugly. He hasn't even the signs of a moustache or a beard or eyebrows. Not because he shaved, God forbid, but simply because they would not grow. But for that again he had a pair of lips and a nose. Ah, what a nose! It was curved like a ram's horn and he had a voice like a bull. He growled like a lion. Where did such a creature get such a terrible roar? And where did he get so much strength? When he took hold of you by the hand with his cold, bony fingers, you saw the next world. When he boxed your ears you felt the smart for three days on end. He hated arguing for the least thing. Guilty or not guilty he had one sentence. Lie down. Rebbe, yossil a yak of yossils thumped me. Lie down. Rebbe, it's a lie. He first kicked me in the side. Lie down. Rebbe, cayamberal lippus put out his tongue at me. Lie down. Rebbe, it's a lie of lies down. And you had to lie down. Nothing would avail you. Even Elia, the red one who is already bar mitzvah and is engaged to be married and wears a silver watch. Do you think he has never flogged? Ah yes, and how? Elia says he will be avenged for the floggings he gets. Someday or other he will pay back the Rebbe in such a way that his children's children pass what Elia says after each flogging and we echo his words. O main, may it be so from your mouth into God's ears. We said our prayers with the teacher as usual. He never let us pray by ourselves because he thought we might skip more than half of the prayers. Mazzepa said to us in his lion's roar, Now children, wash your hands and sit down to the party. And I will let you go for a walk. We used to hold our lagbohme party outside the town in the open air on the bare earth under God's sky. We used to throw crumbs of bread to the birds. Let them also know that it is lagbohme in the world. But one does not argue with Mazzepa. When he told one to sit down one sat down lest he might tell one to lie down. Eat in peace. He said to us after we had pronounced the blessing. Come and eat with us. We replied out of politeness. Eat in health. He said, I do not wish to eat yet. But if you like I will make a blessing over the wine. What of you in that bottle, Brandy? He asked and stretched out his long dried up hand with its bony fingers to the bottle of Brandy. He poured out a glassful, wasted it, and made such a grimace that we must have been stronger than iron to control ourselves from exploding with laughter. Whose is this terrible thing? He asked, taking another drop. It's not bad, Brandy. He filled a third glass and drank our health. Long life to you children. May God grant that we be alive next year. And haven't you got anything to bite? Well, in honour of Lagba Omer I will wash my hands and eat with you. What is wrong with our teacher? He's not the same as ever. He is in good humour and talkative. His cheeks are shining, his nose is red and his eyes are sparkling. He eats and laughs and points to the bottle of wine. What sort of wine have you there? Pass over wine. He tasted it and pursed up his lips. Psssh! The best wine in the world. He drank more. It's a long time since I tasted such wine to yossle the wine merchant's son with a laugh. The devil take your father's cellar. I saw their barrels upon barrels and of the finest raisins. Ha ha! To your health, children. May the Lord help you pious Jews, and may you, may you open the second bottle, take glasses and drink to long life. May God grant that, that—' He licked his lips, his eyes were closing. All good to the children of Israel! Having eaten and said, Grace, Mazeba turned to us, his tongue failing him as he spoke. Then we have carried out the duty of eating together on lagbo-mere. Well, and what next, eh? Now we will go for the walk. For the walk, eh? Excellent! Where do we go? To the Black Forest. Ah, to the Black Forest! Excellent! I go with you. It is good to walk in a forest very healthy, because a forest Well, I will explain to you what a forest is. We went off with our teacher beyond the town. We were not altogether comfortable having him with us, but sure. The teacher walked in the middle, waving his hands and explaining to us what a forest was. The nature of the forest, you must know, is as the Lord has created it. It is full of trees. On the trees are branches, and the branches are covered with leaves that give out a pleasant pungent odour. As he spoke he sniffed the air that was not yet either pleasant or pungent. Well, why are you silent? he asked. Say something nice, sing a song. Well, I was also a boy once, and mischievous like you. I also had a teacher, haha! That Mazeppa had once been a mischievous boy, and had had a teacher we could not believe. It was curious. Mazeppa, playful? We exchanged glances and giggled softly. We tried to imagine Mazeppa playful and having a teacher. And did his teacher also? We were afraid to think of such a thing. But Elia stopped to ask a question. Rebbe, did your teacher also flog you as you flog us? What and what sort of floggings, haha! We looked at the teacher and at each other. We understood one another. We laughed with him until we were far from the town, in the broad fields, close to the forest. The fields were beautiful. A garden of Eden. Green fragrant grass, white boughs, yellow flowers, green flies, and above us the blue sky that stretched away endlessly. Facing us was the forest in holiday attire. In the trees the birds hopped, twittering from branch to branch. They were welcoming us on the dear day of Lagba-Omer. We sought shelter from the burning rays of the sun under a thick tree. We sat down on the ground in a row, the Rebbe in the middle. He was worn out. He threw himself on the ground full length his face upwards. His eyes were closing. He could hardly manage to speak. You are dear golden children, Jewish children, saints, I love you and you love me. Yes, you love me. Like a pain in the eyes replied Elia. Well, I know you love me, went on the teacher. May the Lord love you as we do, said Elia. We were frightened and whispered to Elia. The Lord be with you. Fools, he said with a laugh. What are you afraid of? Don't you see he is drunk? What? queried the teacher, one of whose eyes was already closed. What are you saying? Saints, of course! The Guardian of Israel. Ha-la-la-la. And then our teacher fell fast asleep. The snores burst from his nose like the blasts from a ram's horn, sounding far into the forest. We sat around him, and our hearts grew heavy. Is this our teacher? Is this he whose glances we fear? Is this Mazepa?" "'Children,' said Elia, to us, why are we sitting like lumps of stone? Let us think of a punishment for Mazepa.' A great fear fell upon us. "'Fools, what are you afraid of?' he went on. "'He is now like a dead body, a corpse.' We trembled still more.' Elia went on. "'Now we may do with him what we like. He flogged us the whole winter, as if we were sheep. Let us take revenge of him this once at least. What would you do to him?' "'Nothing. I will only frighten him.' "'How will you frighten him? You shall see!' And he got up from the ground. He went over to the teacher, took off his leather strap, and said to us, "'See, we will fasten him to the tree with his own belt, in such a way that he will not be able to free himself. Then one of us will go over to him and shout in his ear, "'Rebby, murderers! What will happen?' "'Nothing. We will run away, and he will shout, Hero Israel. How long will he shout? Until he gets used to it.'" Without another word, Elia tied the Rebbe to the tree by the hands. We stood looking on, and a shudder passed over our bodies. "'Is this our teacher? Is this he whose glances we fear? Is this Mazepa? Why do you stand there like clay images?' said Elia to us. "'The Lord has performed a miracle. Mazepa has fallen into our hands. Let us dance for joy!' We took hands and danced around the sleeping Mazepa like savages. We danced and leaped and sang like lunatics. We stopped. Elia bent over the sleeping teacher, and shouted into his ear in a voice to awaken the dead. "'Help, Rebbe! Murderers! Murderers! Murderers!' We flew off together like arrows from bows. We were afraid to stop a moment. We were even afraid to look around us. A great dread fell upon us, even upon Elia, though he never ceased from shouting at us. "'Donkeys! Fools! Animals! Why do you run? Why do you run? When you run, I run too!' We got into the town full of excitement, and still shouting, "'Murderers! Murderers!' When the people saw us running, they ran after us. Seeing them running, another crowd ran after them. "'Why are you running? How are we to know? Others run, and we run too?' After some time one of our boys stopped, and seeing him, we also stopped, but still shouted, "'Murderers! Murderers! Murderers! Where? Where? Where?' There, in the black forest, murderers beset us. They bound our teacher to a tree, and God knows if he is still alive. "'If you envy us, because we are free, because we do not go to Haida, the Rebbe is lying ill, it is for nothing, for nothing. No one knows whom the shoe pinches. No one. No one knows who the real murderers are. We rarely see one another. When we meet, the first words are, "'How is the teacher?' He is no more m'zepah. And when we pray, we ask God to save the teacher. We weep in silence. O father of the universe, father of the universe! And Elia? Don't ask about him. May the devil take him that same Elia!' Epilogue. When the Rebbe recovered, he was ill six weeks in the height of fever and babbled constantly of murderers. And we went back to Haida. We hardly recognized him, so greatly had he changed. What had become of his lion's roar? He had put away his strap, and there was no more lie down, and no more m'zepah. On his face there was to be seen a gentle melancholy, a feeling of regret stole into our hearts. And m'zepah suddenly grew dear to us, dear to our souls. Oh, if he had only scolded us! But it was as if nothing had happened. Suddenly he stopped us in the middle of the lesson, and asked us to tell him once again the story of that lag-ba-omere day, and of the murderers in the forest. We did not hesitate, but told him again and again the story we knew off by heart, how murderers had come upon us in the forest, how they fell upon him, tied him to the tree, and were going to kill him with a knife, and how we rushed excitedly into the town, and by our shouting and clamors saved him. The Rebbe listened to us with closed eyes. Then he sighed, and asked us suddenly, Are you quite sure they were murderers? What else were they? Perhaps bandits? And the teacher's eyes sought the distance. And we imagined that a curiously cunning smile was hovering around his thick lips. Chapter 7 of Jewish Children by Sholom-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, Yiddishakinda by Sholom-Elechem Translated by Hannah Berman And read by Adrian Pretzellus Chapter 7 Three Little Heads If my pen were an artist's brush, or at the very least a photographic camera, I would create for you, my friend, a picture, for a present in honour of Shavuos, of a rare group, of three pretty little heads, of three poor naked barefoot Jewish children. All three little heads are black and have curly hair. The eyes are big and shiny and burning. They gaze out in wonder, and seem to be always asking of the world the one question. Wherefore? You look at them and marvel at them, and feel guilty towards them, just as if you were really responsible for them for the existence of three little superfluous mortals in the world. The three pretty little heads are of two brothers and a little sister, Abram Tigg, Moishit Tigg, and Iverka. They were brought up by their father in the true Russian style, petted and spoiled. Their father was Pisa, the box-maker, and if he had not been afraid of his wife Pessa, and if he had not been such a terribly poor man, he would have changed his Jewish name of Pisa into the Russian name of Petcha. But since he was a little afraid of his wife Pessa, and since he was extremely poor, may it remain far from us, he kept to his own name of Pisa, the box-maker, until the good time comes when everything will be different, as Bebel says, as Karl Marx says, and as all the good and wise people say, when everything, everything will be different. But until the good and happy time comes, one must get up at the dawn of day and work far into the night, cutting out pieces of cardboard and pasting boxes and covers of books. Pisa, the box-maker, stands at his work all day long. He sings as he works, old and new songs, Jewish and non-Jewish, mostly gay, sorrowful songs in a gay, sorrowful voice. Will you ever give up singing those Gentile songs such a man, and how he loves the Gentiles? Since we have come to this big town, he has become almost a Gentile. All three children, Abramtsig, Moistutsig and Dvalka, were born and brought up in the same place. Between the wall and the stove. They always saw before them the same people and the same things. The gay father who cut cardboards, pasted boxes and sang songs, and the care-worn, hollow-cheeked mother who cooked and baked, and rushed about, and was never finished her work. They were always at work, both of them, the mother at the stove and the father at the cardboards. What were all the boxes for? Who wanted so many boxes? Is the whole world full of boxes? That is what the three little heads wanted to know. And they waited until their father had a great pile of boxes ready when he would take them on his head and in his arms, thousands of them, to the market. He came back without the boxes, but with money for the mother, and with cakes and buns for the children. He was a good father. Such a good father! He was gold! The mother was also gold, but she was cross. One got a smack from her sometimes, a dig in the ribs, or a twist of an ear. She does not like to have the house untidy. She does not allow the children to play fathers and mothers. She forbids a bramzig to pick up the pieces of cardboard that have fallen to the floor and moissatzig to steal the paste from his father, and Iverka to make bread of sand and water. The mother expects her children to sit still and keep quiet. It seems she does not know that young heads will think, and young souls are eager and restless. They want to go. Where? Out of doors, to the light, to the window, to the window. There was only one window, and all three heads were stuck against it. And what did they see out of it? A wall. A high, big, grey, wet wall. It was always and ever wet even in summer. Does the sun ever come here? Surely the sun comes here sometimes, that is to say, not the sun itself, but its reflection. Then there is a holiday. The three beautiful heads press against the little window. They look upwards, very high, and see a narrow blue stripe, like a long blue ribbon. Do you see, children? says a bramzig. He knows. He goes to Kheida. He is learning comets alif. The Kheida is not far away, in the next house, that is to say, in the next room. Ah, what stories a bramzig tells about Kheida? He tells how he saw, with his own eyes, may he see all that is good, a big building with windows from top to bottom. A bramzig swears that he saw, may he see all that is good, a chimney, a high chimney from which there came out smoke. A bramzig tells what he saw with his own eyes. May he see all that is good, a machine that sowed without hands. A bramzig tells that he saw with his own eyes. May he see all that is good, a car that went along without horses. And many more wonderful things a bramzig tells from the Kheida. And he swears, just as his mother swears, that he may see all that is good, and moisture-tig and develka listen to him and sigh. They envy a bramzig, because he knows everything, everything. For instance, a bramzig knows that a tree grows. It is true he never saw a tree growing. There are no trees on the street, none. But he knows, he heard it at Kheida, that fruit grows on a tree, from which reason one makes the blessing, who has created the fruit of the tree. A bramzig knows, what does he not know, that potatoes and cucumbers and onions and garlic grow in the ground? And that's why one says the blessing over them, who has created the fruit of the ground. A bramzig knows everything, only he does not know how and by what means things grow, things like the other children, he never saw them. There is no field in their street, no garden, no tree, no grass, nothing, nothing. There are big buildings in their street, grey walls and high chimneys that belch out smoke. Each building has a lot of windows, thousands and thousands of windows, and machines that go without hands, and in the streets there are cars that go without horses, and beyond these, nothing, nothing. Even a little bird is seldom seen here. Sometimes an odd sparrow strays in, grey as the grey walls. He picks, picks at the stones, he spreads out his wings and flies away. Fowls? The children sometimes see one quarter of one with a long pale leg. How many legs has a fowl? Four, just like a horse, explains a bramzig, and surely he knows everything. Sometimes their mother brings home from the market a little head with glassy eyes that are covered with a white film. It's dead, says a bramzig, and all the three children look at each other out of great black eyes, and they sigh. Children brought up in the big city, in the huge building, in the congestion, loneliness and poverty. Not one of the three children ever saw a living creature, neither a fowl nor a cow nor any other animal, excepting the cat. They have a cat of their own, a big live cat, as grey as the high damp grey wall. The cat is their only play-toy. They play with it for hours on end. They put a shawl on her, call her the wedding-guest, and laugh and laugh without end. When their mother sees them, she presents them, one with a smack, a second with a dig in the ribs, and the third with a twist of the ear. The children go off to their hiding-place behind the stove. The eldest, a bramzig, tells a story, and the other two, Moishezig and Diverka listen to him. He says their mother is right. They ought not to play with the cat, because a cat is a wicked animal. A bramzig knows everything. There is nothing in the world that he does not know. A bramzig knows everything. He knows there is a land far away called America. In America they have lots of relatives and friends. In that same America the Jews are well off and happy, may no evil eye rest on them. Next year, if God wills it, they will go off to America when they get tickets. Without tickets no one can go to America because there is a sea, and on the sea there is a storm that shakes one to the very soul. A bramzig knows everything. He knows what goes on in the other world. For instance, he knows that in the other world there is a Garden of Eden, for Jews, of course. In the Garden of Eden there are trees with the finest fruits and rivers of oil. Diamonds and rubies are to be found there in the streets. Stoop down and pick them up and fill your pockets. And there good Jews study the holy law day and night and enjoy the holiness. That is what a bramzig tells. And moisture-tigs and Diverka's eyes are burning. They envy their brother because he knows everything. He knows everything even to what goes on in the heavens. A bramzig swears that twice a year, on the nights of Hoshana rubber and Shavuas, the sky opens. It is true he himself never saw the sky opening because there is no sky near them. But his comrades saw it. They swore, may they see all that is good, and they would not swear to a lie. How come one swear to a lie? It's a pity they have no sky in their street, only a long, narrow blue stripe, like a long, narrow blue ribbon. What can one see in such a tiny scrap of sky beyond a few stars and the reflection of the moon? In order to prove to his little sister and brother that the sky opens, a bramzig goes over to his mother and pulls her by the skirt. Mother, is it true that in the middle of Shavuas night the sky opens? I will open your head for you!" When he got no satisfaction from his mother, a bramzig waited for his father who had gone off to market with the treasure of boxes. "'Children, guess what present father will bring us from the market,' said a bramzig. And the children tried to guess what their father would bring them from the market. They counted on their fingers everything that was in the market, everything that an eye could see, and a heart desire—cakes and buns and sweets. But no one guessed a right, and I am afraid you will not guess a right, either. The sister, the box-maker, brought from the market this time neither cakes nor buns nor sweets. He brought the children grass—curious, long, sweet-smelling grass—and all the three children gathered around their father. "'Father, what is that?' It is grass." "'What is grass?' It is a bunch of greens for Shavuas. The Jews need grass for Shavuas.' "'Where do they get it, father?' "'Where do they get it?' "'They buy it. They buy it in the market,' said their father, and he strewed the green, sweet-smelling grass over the freshly swept floor. And he was delighted. It was green, and smelt sweet. He said to the mother, gaily, as is his way, "'Yes, sir, good yom tov to you.' "'Good luck! A new thing! The young devils will now have something to make a mess with,' replied the mother crossly as is her way. And she gave one of the children a smack, the second a dig in the ribs, and the third a twist of the ear. She is never satisfied. All was cross, and all was sour, exactly the opposite of father. The three pretty heads looked at the mother, and at the father, and at one another. The moment their parents turned away, they threw themselves on the floor, and put their faces to the sweet-smelling grass. They kissed it, the green grass that Jews need for Shavuas, and which is sold at the market. Everything is to be found at the market, even greens! The father buys everything. Jews want everything, even greens, even greens!