Jewish Children Part 10

We stopped. Elya bent over the sleeping teacher and shouted into his ear in a voice to waken 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 Elya, although 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 G.o.d knows if he is still alive."

If you envy us because we are free, because we do not go to "_Cheder_"

(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 Mazeppa.) And when we pray, we ask G.o.d to save the teacher. We weep in silence: "Oh, Father of the Universe!

Father of the Universe!" And Elya? Don't ask about him. May the devil take him--that same Elya!

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 "_Cheder_," 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 Mazeppa. On his face there was to be seen a gentle melancholy. A feeling of regret stole into our hearts. And Mazeppa 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 again the story of that "_L'ag Beomer_" 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 clamours 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.

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 "_Shevuous_," 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, Abramtzig, Moshetzig, and Dvairke. They were brought up by their father in the true Russian style, petted and spoiled. Their father was Peisa 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 Peisa into the Russian name of Petya. 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 Peisa 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. Peisa 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 almost become a Gentile."

All three children, Abramtzig, Moshetzig, and Dvairke, 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 careworn, 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 was 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 Abramtzig to pick up the pieces of cardboard that have fallen to the floor, and Moshetzig to steal the paste from his father, and Dvairke 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.

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 Abramtzig. He knows. He goes to "_Cheder_."

He is learning "_Kometz Aleph_." The "_Cheder_" is not far away, in the next house, that is to say, in the next room. Ah, what stories Abramtzig tells about the "_Cheder_"! 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. Abramtzig swears that he saw--may he see all that is good!--a chimney--a high chimney from which there came out smoke. Abramtzig tells that he saw with his own eyes--may he see all that is good!--a machine that sewed without hands. Abramtzig 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 Abramtzig tells from the "_Cheder_." And he swears, just as his mother swears--that he may see all that is good. And Moshetzig and Dvairke listen to him and sigh. They envy Abramtzig because he knows everything--everything.

For instance, Abramtzig knows that a tree grows. It is true he never saw a tree growing. There are no trees in the street--none. But he knows--he heard it at "_Cheder_"--that fruit grows on a tree, for which reason one makes the blessing--"Who hast created the fruit of the tree." Abramtzig knows--what does he not know?--that potatoes and cuc.u.mbers and onions and garlic grow on the ground. And that's why one says the blessing over them--"Who hast created the fruit of the ground." Abramtzig knows everything. Only he does not know how and by what means things grow, because, like the other children, he never saw them. There is no field in their street, no garden, no tree, no gra.s.s--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 the quarter of one with a long, pale leg. How many legs has a fowl? "Four, just like a horse," explains Abramtzig. And surely he knows everything.

Sometimes their mother brings home from the market a little head with gla.s.sy eyes that are covered with a white film. "It's dead," says Abramtzig, and all three children look at each other out of great black eyes; and they sigh.

Born and 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 an 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, Abramtzig, tells a story, and the other two, Moshetzig and Dvairke, listen to him. He says their mother is right. They ought not to play with the cat, because a cat is a wicked animal. Abramtzig knows everything. There is nothing in the world that he does not know.

Abramtzig knows everything. He knows there is a land far away called America. In America they have a lot 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 G.o.d 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.

Abramtzig knows everything.

He even 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 Abramtzig tells. And Moshetzig's and Dvairke's eyes are burning. They envy their brother because he knows everything. He knows everything, even to what goes on in the heavens. Abramtzig swears that twice a year, on the nights of "_Hashono Rabo_" and "_Shevuous_," 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 can 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 sc.r.a.p 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, Abramtzig goes over to his mother, and pulls her by the skirt.

"Mother, is it true that in the very middle of '_Shevuous_' night the sky opens?"

"I will open your head for you."