Chapter III: Part 3

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 enflamed, 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 into my mind.... But 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 fowl 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. 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! 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 Okhrim, the gardener.

* * *

Okhrim 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 Okhrim? He used to deal with us. That is to say, he used to borrow money off my mother every Passover eve, and about "_Succoth_" time, he used to begin 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 Okhrim, and a separate account. It was headed in big writing, "Okhrim's account." Under these words came the entries: "A '_rouble_' from Okhrim. Another 'rouble' from Okhrim. Two 'roubles' from Okhrim. Half a '_rouble_' from Okhrim. A sack of potatoes from Okhrim," and so on.... And though my mother was not rich--a widow with children, who lived by money-lending--she took no interest from Okhrim. He used to repay us in garden-produce, sometimes more, sometimes less. We never quarrelled 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," Okhrim 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 at 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 at 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 Okhrim from the distance, in his high boots and his thick, white, warm, woollen pellisse 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 Okhrim was coming.

* * *

I must confess that there was a sort of secret love between Okhrim 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 Okhrim? 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 a 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 Okhrim, defending me.

That is the sort of Gentile Okhrim 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 Okhrim came up and saw his garden in ruins, he could not at once understand what had happened. When 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. But 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 Okhrim 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 Okhrim, and he crossed himself. He began to realize the ruin I had brought on 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 at myself that I could only repeat:

"Why? Why?"

"Come," said Okhrim, 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 Okhrim 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, 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 wrung her hands when Okhrim told her in detail all that had taken place in his garden, and of all the damage I had done to his vegetables? Okhrim 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?"

Okhrim could say no more. The sobs stuck in his throat and choked him.

I must tell you the real truth, children. I would rather Okhrim with the strong arms had beaten me, than have got what I did from my mother, before "_Shevuous_," and what the teacher gave me after "_Shevuous_." ... And the shame of it all. I was reminded of it all the year round by the boys at "_Cheder_." They gave me a nickname--"The Gardener." I was Yossel "the gardener."

This nickname stuck to me almost until the day I was married.

That is how I went to gather greens for "_Shevuous_."

Another Page from "The Song of Songs"

"Quicker, Busie, quicker!" I said to her the day before the "_Shevuous_." 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--a 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 Busie, "you walk seven miles until 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."

"And there appears before 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.'"

Busie takes her hand from mine, and runs down the hill. I run after her.

"Busie, why are you running off?"

Busie does not answer. She is vexed. She likes the story I told her excepting the part about the Queen's daughter.

* * *

You have not forgotten who Busie 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 water-mill, 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 Busie.

Ha! ha! ha! Everybody thinks that Busie and I are sister and brother. She calls my mother "mother," and my father "father." And we two live together like sister and brother, and love one another, like sister and brother.

Like sister and brother? Then why is Busie ashamed before me?

It happened once that we two were left alone in the house--we two by ourselves in the whole house. It was evening, towards nightfall. My father had gone to the synagogue to recite the mourners' prayer after my dead brother Benny, and my mother had gone out to buy matches. Busie and I crept into a corner, and I told her stories. Busie likes me to tell her stories--fine stories of "_Cheder_," 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, Busie?"

"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 Busie. And I imagined I heard in her voice the words from the "Song of Songs," "O that thou wert as my brother."

It is always so. When I speak of Busie, I always think of the "Song of Songs."

* * *

Where was I? I was telling you of the eve of the "_Shevuous_." Well, we ran down hill, Busie 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 Busie'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:

"Shemak, oh, Shemak! Just look! What a sky! You do not see what is going on all around us."

"I see, little fool. Why should I not see? 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, Busie."

No, she will not give me her hand. She is ashamed. Why is Busie ashamed before me? Why does she grow red?

"There," says Busie 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. Busie is afraid.

"Ah, Busie, 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. Busie 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 two alone in the Garden of Eden.

"Shemak," says Busie to me, looking straight into my eyes, and nestling still closer to me, "when shall we start gathering the green boughs for the '_Shevuous_'?"

"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 Busie'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 for ever 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 Busie 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 Busie. 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 our going off outside the town to gather green boughs for the "_Shevuous_."

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: "What then are you saying?"

Father: "I am saying that 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 the little bridge there is a water--a stream, a stream, a stream.

* * *

We, Busie and I, have long forgotten the little bridge and the river, the stream. We are going across the broad free Levada, under the blue, open sky. We run across the green field, 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 Busie 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 Busie. 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 hand, and says to me: "Shemak!" My sulks 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, Busie 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 Busie, 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 step-father.

"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 Busie. 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 Busie, 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. Busie 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 Busie, 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 do my father and mother come here?

* * *

My father's silver spectacles shine 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 two, Busie and I, remain sitting. We are like paralysed. 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 '_Shevuous_' decorations."

Busie and I exchanged glances. I understood her looks. I imagined I heard her saying to me, in the words of the "Song of Songs":

"'O that thou wert as my brother!'.... Why are you not my brother?"

* * *

"Well, I expect we shall get some greenery for '_Shevuous_' somehow," says my father with a smile. And the silver strands of his silver-white beard glisten like rays of light in the golden red of the sun. "Thank God the children are well, and that no ill has befallen them."

"Praised 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!

A Pity for the Living

"If you were a good boy, you would help us to scrape the horse-radish until we are ready with the fish for the holy festival."

That was what my mother said to me on the eve of "_Shevuous_," about mid-day. 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 there 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 leaped 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, put 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."

"Of 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 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, Pinalle, the "_Shochet's_" son. I was at his house one day, and I saw how a little girl carried a fowl, a huge cock, its legs tied with a string. My comrade's father, the "_Shochet_," 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 "_Shochet_" 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 hens, to the corn and the water. But it was not so. The "_Shochet_" turned him round, caught him between his knees, thrust back his head with one hand, with the other plucked out a few little feathers, pronounced a blessing--heck! the knife was drawn across his throat. He was cast away. I thought he would fall to pieces.

"Pinalle, 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.

* * *

Our cook is blind of one eye. She is called "Fruma with the 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 fowls and the livers, it turned out that she had made a mistake. She had thought there were seven fowls, and, of course, seven little livers, and there were only six. And if there were only six fowls there could be only six little livers. Marvellous! She had accused the cat wrongly.

You might imagine that Fruma was sorry and apologized 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'll give it you across the face with the towel."

That is what "Fruma with the 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 "Fruma with the little eye." Ah, 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. 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 fondle him.

"Here, Sirko!"

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.

"Shah! Sirko!" 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 '_Cheder_,' dog-beater."

Then I was the dog-beater.

* * *

It was all about two little birds--two tiny little birds that two boys, one big 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 says, out of pity for the living. Even a spider, that is an evil spirit, must not be killed either, he tells us emphatically.

"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 fowls 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 neighbours' little girl? Her name was Peralle. And how did they kill her?

Ah, how I loved that little girl. And how that little girl loved me! "Uncle Bebebe," she used to call me. (My name is Velvalle.) And she used to pull me by the nose with her small, thin, sweet little fingers. Because of her, because of Peralle, every one calls me "Uncle Bebebe."

"Here comes Uncle Bebebe, and he will take you in hand."

* * *

Peralle 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 Bebebe."

Our neighbour Krenni says she cannot forget Uncle Bebebe to this day. When she sees me, she says she is again reminded of her Peralle.

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 Krenni 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, he weeps again, the wise one," cries "Fruma with the little eye" to my mother. My mother gives me a quick glance and laughs aloud.

"The horse-radish has gone into your eyes. The devil take you. It's a hard piece of horse-radish. 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."

The Tabernacle

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, Kassrillevka. They called him Moshe-for-once, because, whatever he heard or saw or made, he exclaimed:

"It is such-and-such a thing for once."

A new cantor in the synagogue--he is a cantor for once.

Some one is carrying a turkey for the Passover--it is a turkey for once.

"There will be a fine frost tomorrow."

"A fine frost for once."

"There were blows exchanged at the meeting."

"Good blows for once."

"Oh, Jews, I am 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 live in Kassrillevka--tens of thousands. He hovered around the overlord. That is, not the overlord himself, but the gentlefolks that were with the overlord. And not around the gentlefolks themselves, but around the Jews that hovered around the gentlefolks 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 a 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, and what not.

True, no one could point to the houses, the clocks, or the machines that came from his hands; but every one was satisfied Moshe could make them. Every one 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 of the "_Samovar_" went out of order, or there appeared in a house blackbeetles, or bugs, or other filthy creatures, it was always Moshe who was consulted. Or when a 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 a watchmaker, and the "_Samovar_" to the copper-smith. The blackbeetles, 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 how to get rid of foxes, or blackbeetles 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 neighbours 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 Hershke Mamtzes' 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 on 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, with their thin legs and fat bellies. When they walked they waddled like ducks. They did nothing but eat, and when any one 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 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 had to sell. But all this was cold comfort to us. I heard the same sort of 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 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 to 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 she was in earnest, for, half an hour later, the three were going about the house, father, Moshe, and Hershke Mamtzes, our landlord, looking for a spot on which to erect a Tabernacle.

* * *

Hershke Mamtzes' 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 the waist in front and the buttons underneath. If you talk to Hershke, 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, until it remained with him.

"Where do you intend to erect the Tabernacle, '_Reb_' 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 in 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 a Tabernacle for once. The main thing was to get the material.

"There will be materials. Have you the tools?" asked Hershke.

"The tools will be found. Have you the timber?" asked Moshe.

"There is timber. Have you the nails?" asked Hershke.

"Nails can be got. Have you the fir-boughs?" asked Moshe.

"Somehow, you are a little too so-so today," said Hershke.

"A little too what?" asked Moshe. They looked each other straight in the eyes, and both burst out laughing.

* * *

When Hershke Mamtzes 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 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 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 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 to 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 Hershke brings us the fir-boughs, it will be a Tabernacle for once."

Hershke Mamtzes worried us about the fir-boughs. He put off going for them from day to day. The day before the Festival he went off and brought back a cart-load 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 fir-boughs, as if they were something worth while. 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 fir-boughs. It seems they told one another, because there 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 fir-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 fir-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 candle-sticks 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 unto her!--was a woman who loved to weep. The Days of Mourning were her Days of Rejoicing. And since we had lost our 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 any one 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 I even 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 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 "_Cheder_." And looking at my mother, with her lovely face that looked lovelier above the lovely silk shawl she wore, with her large, beautiful, careworn 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 brilliants. Or 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 and most melodious voice, rang in my ears.

"Thou hast chosen us above all peoples, Us hast Thou 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 the blessing over the most beautiful fruit in the world--the citron. Ah, who could compare with me? Who could compare with me?

* * *