Jewish Children Part 21

"I am not mad, and I have not lost my reason. Only you are fools, yes.

Do I mean that we are to be really ill? I mean that we are to pretend to be ill, so that we shall not have to go to '_Cheder_.' Do you understand me now?"

When Velvel had explained his plan to us, we began to understand it, and to like it. And we began to ask ourselves what sort of an illness we should suffer from. One suggested toothache, another headache, a third stomach-ache, a fourth worms. But we decided that it was not going to be toothache, nor headache, nor stomach-ache, nor worms. What then? We must all together complain of pains in our feet, because the doctor could decide whether we really suffered from any of the other illnesses or not. But if we told him we had pains in our feet, and were unable to move them, he could do nothing.

"Remember, children, you are not to get out of bed tomorrow morning. And so that we may all be certain that not one of us will come to '_Cheder_'

tomorrow, let us promise one another, take an oath."

So said our comrade Velvel. And we gave each other our promise, and took an oath that we would not be at "_Cheder_" next morning. We went home from "_Cheder_" that evening lively, joyful, and singing. We felt like giants who knew how to overcome the enemy and win the battle.

The Spinning-Top

More than any of the boys at "_Cheder_," more than any boy of the town, and more than any person in the world, I loved my friend, Benny "_Polkovoi_." The feeling I had for him was a peculiar combination of love, devotion, and fear. I loved him because he was handsomer, cleverer and smarter than any other boy. He was kind and faithful to me. He took my part, fought for me, and pulled the ears of those boys who annoyed me.

And I was afraid of him because he was big and quarrelsome. He could beat whom he liked, and when he liked. He was the biggest, oldest, and wealthiest boy in the "_Cheder_." His father, Mayer "_Polkovoi_," though he was only a regimental tailor, was nevertheless a rich man, and played an important part in public affairs. He had a fine house, a seat in the synagogue beside the ark. At the Pa.s.sover, his "_Matzo_" was baked first. At the feast of Tabernacles his citron was the best. On the Sabbath he always had a poor man to meals. He gave away large sums of money in charity. And he himself went to the house of another to lend him money as a favour. He engaged the best teachers for his children. In a word, Mayer "_Polkovoi_" tried to refine himself--to be a man amongst men. He wanted to get his name inscribed in the books of the best society, but did not succeed. In our town, Mazapevka, it was not easy to get into the best society. We did not forget readily a man's antecedents. A tailor may try to refine himself for twenty years in succession, but he will still remain a tailor to us. I do not think there is a soap in the world that will wash out this stain. How much do you think Mayer "_Polkovoi_" would have given to have us blot out the name bestowed upon him, "_Polkovoi_"? His misfortune was that his family was a thousand times worse than his name. Just imagine! In his pa.s.sport he was called Mayor Mofsovitch Heifer.

It is a remarkable thing. May Mayer's great-great-grandfather have a bright Paradise! He also must have been a tailor. When it came to giving himself a family name, he could not find a better one than Heifer. He might have called himself Thimble, Lining, b.u.t.tonhole, Bigpatch, Longfigure. These are not family names either, it is true, but they are in some way connected with tailoring. But Heifer? What did he like in the name of Heifer? You may ask why not Goat? Are there not people in the world called Goat? You may say what you like, Heifer and Goat are equally nice. Still, they are not the same. A Heifer is not a Goat.

But we will return to my friend Benny.

Benny was a nice boy, with yellow tousled hair, white puffed-out cheeks, scattered teeth, and peculiar red, bulging, fishy eyes. These red, fishy eyes were always smiling and roguish. He had a turned-up nose. His whole face had an expression of impudence. Nevertheless, I liked his face, and we became friends the first hour we met.

We met for the first time at "_Cheder_," at the teachers' table. When my mother took me to "_Cheder_," the teacher was sitting at his table with the boys, teaching them the book of Genesis. He was a man with thick eyebrows and a pointed cap. He made no fuss of me. He asked me no questions, neither did he take my measurements, but said to me--

"Get over there, on that bench, between those two boys."

I got on the bench, between the boys, and was already a pupil. There was no talk between my mother and the teacher. They had made all arrangements beforehand.

"Remember to learn as you ought," said my mother from the doorway. She turned to look at me again, lovingly, joyfully. I understood her look very well. She was pleased that I was sitting with nice children, and learning the "_Torah_." And she was pained because she had to part with me.

I must confess I felt much happier than my mother. I was amongst a crowd of new friends--may no evil eye harm them! They looked at me, and I looked at them. But the teacher did not let us idle for long. He shook himself, and shouted aloud the lesson we had to repeat after him at the top of our voices.

"Now the serpent was more subtil than any beast of the field."

Boys who sit so close together, though they shake and shout aloud, cannot help getting to know one another, or exchange a few words. And so it was.

Benny "_Polkovoi_," who sat crushing me, pinched my leg, and looked into my eyes. He went on shaking himself, and shouting out the lesson with the teacher and the other boys. But he threw his own words into the middle of the sentence we were translating.

"And Adam knew (here are b.u.t.tons for you) Eve his wife. (Give me a locust-bean and I will give you a pull of my cigarette.)"

I felt a warm hand in mine, and I had some smooth b.u.t.tons. I confess I did not want the b.u.t.tons, and I had no locust-beans, neither did I smoke cigarettes. But I liked the idea of the thing. And I replied in the same tones in which the lesson was being recited:

"And she conceived and bare Cain. (Who told you I have locust-beans?)"

That is how we conversed the whole time, until the teacher suspected that though I shook myself to and fro, my mind was far from the lesson.

He suddenly put me through an examination.

"Listen, you, whatever your name is, you surely know whose son Cain was, and the name of his brother?"

This question was as strange to me as if he had asked me when there would be a fair in the sky, or how to make cream-cheese from snow, so that they should not melt. In reality my mind was elsewhere, I don't know where.

"Why do you look at me so?" asked the teacher. "Don't you hear me? I want you to tell me the name of the first man, and the story of Cain and his brother Abel."

The boys were smiling, smothering their laughter. I did not know why.

"Fool, say you do not know, because we have not learnt it," whispered Benny in my ear, digging me with his elbow. I repeated his words, like a parrot. And the "_Cheder_" was filled with loud laughter.

"What are they laughing at?" I asked myself. I looked at them, and at the teacher. All were rolling with laughter. And, at that moment, I counted the b.u.t.tons from one hand into the other. There were exactly half a dozen.

"Well, little boy, show me your hands. What are you doing with them?"

And the teacher bent down and looked under the table.

You are clever boys, and you will understand yourselves what I had from the teacher, for the b.u.t.tons, on my first day at "_Cheder_."

Whippings heal up; shame is forgotten. Benny and I became good friends.

We were one soul. This is how it came about:--

Next morning I arrived at "_Cheder_" with my Bible in one hand and my dinner in the other. The boys were excited, jolly. Why? The teacher was not there. What had happened? He had gone off to a Circ.u.mcision with his wife. That is to say, not with her, G.o.d forbid! A teacher never walks with his wife. The teacher walks before, and his wife after him.

"Let us make a bet," cried a boy with a blue nose. His name was Hosea Hessel.

"How much shall we bet?" asked another boy, Koppel Bunnas. He had a torn sleeve out of which peeped the point of a dirty elbow.

"A quarter of the locust-beans."

"Let it be a quarter of the locust-beans. What for? Let us hear."

"I say he will not stand more than twenty-five."

"And I say thirty-six."

"Thirty-six. We shall soon see. Boys, take hold of him."

This was the order of Hosea Hessel, of the blue nose. And several boys took hold of me, all together, turned me over on the bench, face upwards. Two sat on my legs, two on my arms, and one held my head, so that I should not be able to wriggle. And another placed his left forefinger and thumb at my nose. (It seemed he was left-handed.) He curled up his finger and thumb, closed his eye, and began to fillip me on the nose. And how, do you think? Each time I saw my father in the other world. Murderers, slaughterers! What had they against my nose?

What had it done to them? Whom had it bothered? What had they seen on it--a nose like all noses.

"Boys, count," commanded Hosea Hessel. "One, two, three--"

But suddenly....

Nearly always, since ever the world began, when a misfortune happens to a man--when robbers surround him in a wood, bind his hands, sharpen their knives, tell him to say his prayers, and are about to finish him off, there comes a woodman with a bell. The robbers run away, and the man lifts his hands on high and praises the Lord for his deliverance.