Chapter 10

First of all, I began to make money by selling everything I possessed, one thing after the other, my pocket-knife, my purse, and all my buttons. I had a box that opened and closed, and some wheels of an old clock--good brass wheels that shone like the sun when they were polished. I sold them all at any price, flew off, and lost all my money to Benny. I always left him with a heart full of wounds and the bitterest annoyance, and greatly excited. I was not angry with Benny. God forbid! What had I against him? How was he to blame if he always won at play? If the top fell on the G for me, he said, I should win. If it falls on the G for him, then he wins. And he is quite right. No, I am only sorry for myself, for having run through so much money--my mother's hard-earned "_groschens_," and for having made away with all my things. I was left almost naked. I even sold my little prayer-book. O that prayer-book, that prayer-book! When I think of it, my heart aches, and my face burns with shame. It was an ornament, not a book. My mother bought it of Pethachiah the pedlar, on the anniversary of my father's death. And it was a book of books--a good one, a real good one, thick, and full of everything. It had every prayer one could mention, the "Song of Songs," the Ethics of the Fathers, and the Psalms, and the "_Haggadah_," and all the prayers of the whole year round. Then the print and the binding, and the gold lettering. It was full of everything, I tell you. Each time Pethachiah the pedlar came round with his cut moustache that made his careworn face appear as if it was smiling--each time he came round and opened his pack outside the synagogue door, I could not take my eyes off that prayer-book.

"What would you say, little boy?" asked Pethachiah, as if he did not know that I had my eyes on the prayer-book, and had had it in my hands seventeen times, each time asking the price of it.

"Nothing," I replied. "Just so!" And I left him, so as not to be tempted.

"Ah, mother, you should see the fine thing Pethachiah the pedlar has."

"What sort of a thing?" asked my mother.

"A little prayer-book. If I had such a prayer-book, I would--I don't know myself what I would do."

"Haven't you got a prayer-book? And where is your father's prayer-book?"

"You can't compare them. This is an ornament, and my book is only a book."

"An ornament?" repeated my mother. "Are there then more prayers in an ornamental book, or do the prayers sound better?"

Well, how can you explain an ornament to your mother--a really fine book with red covers, and blue edges, and a green back?

"Come," said my mother to me, one evening, taking me by the hand. "Come with me to the synagogue. Tomorrow is the anniversary of your father's death. We will bring candles to be lit for him, and at the same time we will see what sort of a prayer-book it is that Pethachiah has."

I knew beforehand that on the anniversary of the death of my father, I could get from my mother anything I asked for, even to the little plate from heaven, as the saying is. And my heart beat with joy.

When we got to the synagogue, we found Pethachiah with his pack still unopened. You must know Pethachiah was a man who never hurried. He knew very well he was the only man at the fair. His customers would never leave him. Before he opened his pack and spread out his goods, it took a year. I trembled, I shook. I could hardly stand on my feet. And he did not care. It was as if we were not talking to him at all.

"Let me see what sort of a prayer-book it is you have," said my mother.

Pethachiah had plenty of time. The river was not on fire. Slowly, without haste, he opened his pack, and spread out his wares--big Bibles, little prayer-books for men, and for women, big Psalm books and little, and books for all possible occasions, without an end. Then there were books of tales from the "_Talmud_," tales of the "_Bal-shem-tov_," books of sermons, and books of devotion. I imagined he would never run short. He was a well, a fountain. At last he came to the little books, and handed out the one I wanted.

"Is this all?" asked my mother. "Such a little one."

"This little one is dearer than a big one," answered Pethachiah.

"And how much do you want for the little squirrel?--God forgive me for calling it by that name."

"You call a prayer-book a squirrel?" asked Pethachiah. He took the book slowly out of her hand; and my heart was torn.

"Well, say. How much is it?" asked my mother. But Pethachiah had plenty of time. He answered her in a sing-song:

"How much is the little prayer-book? It will cost you--it will cost you--I am afraid it is not for your purse."

My mother cursed her enemies, that they might have black, hideous dreams, and asked him to say how much.

Pethachiah stated the price. My mother did not answer him. She turned towards the door, took my hand, and said to me:

"Come, let us go. We have nothing to do here. Don't you know that '_Reb_' Pethachiah is a man who charges famine prices?"

I followed my mother to the door. And though my heart was heavy, I still hoped the Lord would pity us, and Pethachiah would call us back. But Pethachiah was not that sort of a man. He knew we should turn back of our own accord. And so it was. My mother turned round, and asked him to talk like a man. Pethachiah did not stir. He looked at the ceiling. And his pale face shone. We went off, and returned once again.

"A curious Jew, Pethachiah," said my mother to me afterwards. "May my enemies have the plague if I would have bought the prayer-book from him. It is at a famine price. As I live, it is a sin. The money could have gone for your school-fees. But it's useless. For the sake of tomorrow, the anniversary of your father's death--peace be unto him!--I have bought you the prayer-book, as a favour. And now, my son, you must do me a favour in return. Promise me that you will say your prayers faithfully every day."

Whether I really prayed as faithfully as I had promised, or not, I will not tell you. But I loved the little book as my life. You may understand that I slept with it, though, as you know, it is forbidden. The whole "_Cheder_" envied me the little book. I minded it as if it were the apple of my eye. And now, this "_Chanukah_"--woe unto me!--I carried it off with my own hands to Moshe the carpenter's boy, who had long had his eye on it. And I had to beg of him, for an hour on end, before he bought it. I almost gave it away for nothing--the little prayer-book. My heart faints and my face burns with shame. Sold! And to what end? For whose sake? For Benny's sake, that he might win off me another few "_kopeks_." But how is Benny to blame if he wins at play?

"That's what a spinning-top is for," explained Benny, putting into his purse my last few "_groschens_." "If things went with you as they are going with me, then you would be winning. But I am lucky, and I win."

And Benny's cheeks glowed. It is bright and warm in the house. A silver "_Chanukah_" lamp is burning the best oil. Everything is fine. From the kitchen comes a delicious odour of freshly melted goose-fat.

"We are having fritters tonight," Benny told me in the doorway. My heart was weak with hunger. I flew home in my torn sheep-skin. My mother had come in from her shop. Her hands were red and swollen with the cold. She was frozen through and through, and was warming herself at the stove. Seeing me, her face lit up with pleasure.

"From the synagogue?" she asked.

"From the synagogue," was my lying answer.

"Have you said the evening prayer?"

"I have said the evening prayer," was my second lie to her.

"Warm yourself, my son. You will say the blessing over the '_Chanukah_' lights. It is the last night of '_Chanukah_' tonight, thank God!"

* * *

If a man had only troubles to bear, without a scrap of pleasure, he would never get over them, but would surely take his own life. I am referring to my mother, the widow, poor thing, who worked day and night, froze, never had enough to eat, and never slept enough for my sake. Why should she not have a little pleasure too? Every person puts his own meaning into the word "pleasure." To my mother there was no greater pleasure in the world than hearing me recite the blessings on Sabbaths and Festivals. At the Passover I carried out the "_Seder_" for her, and at "_Chanukah_" I made the blessing over the lights. Was the blessing over wine or beer? Had we for the Passover fritters or fresh "_matzo_"? What were the "_Chanukah_" lights--a silver, eight-branched lamp with olive oil, or candles stuck in pieces of potato? Believe me, the pleasure has nothing to do with wine or fritters, or a silver lamp. The main thing is the blessing itself. To see my mother's face when I was praying, how it shone and glowed with pleasure was enough. No words are necessary, no detailed description, to prove that this was unalloyed happiness to her, real pleasure. I bent over the potatoes, and recited the blessing in a sing-song voice. She repeated the blessing after me, word for word, in the same sing-song. She looked into my eyes, and moved her lips. I knew she was thinking at the time: "It is he--he in every detail. May the child have longer years!" And I felt I deserved to be cut to pieces like the potatoes. Surely, I had deceived my mother, and for such a base cause. I had betrayed her from head to foot.

The candles in the potatoes--my "_Chanukah_" lights--flickered and flickered until they went out. And my mother said to me:

"Wash your hands. We are having potatoes and goose-fat for supper. In honour of '_Chanukah_,' I bought a little measure of goose-fat--fresh, beautiful fat."

I washed myself with pleasure, and we sat down to supper.

"It is a custom amongst some people to have fritters for supper on the last night of '_Chanukah_,'" said my mother, sighing. And there arose to my mind Benny's fritters, and Benny's spinning-top that had cost me all I possessed in the world. I had a sharp pain at my heart. More than all, I regretted the little prayer-book. But, of what use were regrets? It was all over and done with.

Even in my sleep I had uneasy thoughts. I heard my mother's groans. I heard her bed creaking, and I imagined that it was my mother groaning. Out of doors, the wind was blowing, rattling the windows, tearing at the roof, whistling down the chimney, sighing loudly. A cricket had come to our house a long time before. It was now chirping from the wall, "Tchireree! Tchireree!" And my mother did not cease from sighing and groaning. And each sigh and each groan echoed itself in my heart. I only just managed to control myself. I was on the point of jumping out of bed, falling at my mother's feet, kissing her hands, and confessing to her all my sins. I did not do this. I covered myself with all the bed-clothes, so that I might not hear my mother sighing and groaning and her bed creaking. My eyes closed. The wind howled, and the cricket chirped, "Tchireree! Tchireree! Tchireree! Tchireree!" And there spun around before my eyes a man like a top--a man I seemed to know. I could have sworn it was the teacher in his pointed cap. He was spinning on one foot, round, and round, and round. His cap sparkled, his eyes glistened, and his earlocks flew about. No, it was not the teacher. It was a spinning-top--a curious, living top with a pointed cap and earlocks. By degrees the teacher-top, or the top-teacher ceased from spinning round. And in its place stood Pharaoh, the king of Egypt whose story we had learnt a week ago. Pharaoh, king of Egypt, stood naked before me. He had only just come out of the river. He had my little prayer-book in his hand. I could not make out how that wicked king, who had bathed in Jewish blood, came to have my prayer-book. And I saw seven cows, lean and starved, mere skin and bones, with big horns and long ears. They came to me one after the other. They opened their mouths and tried to swallow me. Suddenly, there appeared my friend Benny. He took hold of their long ears, and twisted them round. Some one was crying softly, sobbing, wailing, howling, and chirping. A man stood near me. He was not a human being. He said to me softly:

"Tell me, son, on which day do you recite the mourner's prayer for me?"

I understood that this was my father of whom my mother had told me so many good things. I wanted to tell him the day on which I must say the mourner's prayer for him, but I had forgotten it. I fretted myself. I rubbed my forehead, and tried to remind myself of the day, but I could not. Did you ever hear the like? I forgot the day of the anniversary of my father's death. Listen, Jewish children, can you not tell me when the day is? Why are you silent? Help! Help! Help!

* * *

"God be with you! Why are shouting? Why do you shriek? What is the matter with you? May the Lord preserve you!"

You will understand it was my mother who was speaking to me. She held my head. I could feel her trembling and shaking. The lowered lamp gave out no light, but an oppressive stench. I saw my mother's shadow dancing on the wall. The points of the kerchief she wore on her head were like two horns. Her eyes gleamed horribly in the darkness.

"When do I say the mourner's prayer, mother? Tell me, when do I say the mourner's prayer?"

"God be with you! The anniversary of your father's death was not long ago. You have had a bad dream. Spit out three times. Tfu! Tfu! Tfu! May it be for a good sign! Amen! Amen! Amen!"

* * *

Children, I grew up, and Benny grew up. He became a young man with a yellowish beard and a round belly. He wears a gold chain across it. It seems he is a rich man.

We met in the train. I recognized him by his fishy, bulging eyes and his scattered teeth. We had not met for a long time. We kissed one another and talked of the good old times, the dear good days of our childhood, and the foolish things we did then.

"Do you remember, Benny, that '_Chanukah_' when you won everything with the spinning top? The G always fell for you."

I looked at Benny. He was convulsed with laughter. He held his sides. He was rolling over. He was actually choking with laughter.

"God be with you, Benny! Why this sudden burst of laughter, Benny?"

"Oh!" he cried, "oh! go away with your spinning-top! That was a good top. It was a real top. It was a pudding made only of suet. It was a stew of nothing but raisins."

"What sort of a top was it, Benny? Tell me quicker."

"It was a top that had all around it, on all the corners only the one letter, G."

Esther

I am not going to tell you a story of "_Cheder_" or of the teacher, or of the teacher's wife. I have told you enough about them. Perhaps you will allow me, this time, in honour of the feast of "_Purim_," to tell you a story of the teacher's daughter, Esther.

* * *

If the Esther of the Bible was as beautiful a creature as the Esther of my story, then it is no wonder she found favour in the eyes of King Ahasuerus. The Esther of whom I am going to tell you was loved by everybody, everybody, even by me and by my older brother Mottel, although he was "_Bar-mitzvah_" long ago, and they were making up a match for him, and he was wearing a watch and chain this good while. (If I am not mistaken, he had already started to grow a beard at the time I speak of.) And that my brother Mottel loves Esther, I am positive. He thinks I do not know that his going to "_Cheder_" every Sabbath to read with the teacher is a mere pretext, a yesterday's day! The teacher snores loudly. The teacher's wife stands on the doorstep talking with the women. We boys play around the room, and Mottel and Esther are staring--she at him, and he at her. It sometimes happens that we boys play at "blind-man's-buff." Do you know what "blind-man's-buff" is? Well, then I will tell you. You take a boy, bandage his eyes with a handkerchief, place him in the middle of the floor, and all the boys fly round him crying: "Blindman, blindman, catch me!"

Mottel and Esther also play at "blind-man's-buff" with us. They like the game because, when they are playing it, they can chase one another--she him, and he her.

And I have many more proofs I could give you that--But I am not that sort.

I once caught them holding hands, he hers, and she his. And it was not on the Sabbath either, but on a week-day. It was towards evening, between the afternoon and the evening prayers. He was pretending to go to the synagogue. He strayed into "_Cheder_." "Where is the teacher?" "The teacher is not here." And he went and gave her his hand, Esther, that is. I saw them. He withdrew his hand and gave me a "_groschen_" to tell no one. I asked two, and he gave me two. I asked three, and he gave me three. What do you think--if I had asked four, or five, or six, would he not have given them? But I am not that sort.

Another time, too, something happened. But enough of this. I will rather tell you the real story--the one I promised you.

* * *

As I told you, my brother Mottel is grown up. He does not go to "_Cheder_" any more, nor does he wish to learn anything at home. For this, my father calls him "Man of clay." He has no other name for him. My mother does not like it. What sort of a habit is it to call a young man, almost a bridegroom, a man of clay? My father says he is nothing else but a man of clay. They quarrel about it. I do not know what other parents do, but my parents are always quarrelling. Day and night they are quarrelling.

If I were to tell you how my father and mother quarrel, you would split your sides laughing. But I am not that sort.

In a word, my brother Mottel does not go to "_Cheder_" any more. Nevertheless, he does not forget to send the teacher a "_Purim_" present. Having been a pupil of his he sends him a nice poem in Hebrew, illuminated with a "Shield of David," and two paper "_roubles_." With whom does he send this "_Purim_" present? With me, of course. My brother says to me, "Here, hand the teacher this "_Purim_" present. When you come back, I will give you ten '_groschens_.'" Ten "_groschens_" is money. But what then? I want the money now. My brother said I was a heathen. Said I: "It may be I am a heathen. I will not argue about it. But I want to see the money," said I. Who do you think won?

He gave me the ten "_groschens_," and handed me the teacher's "_Purim_" present in a sealed envelope. When I was going off, he thrust into my hand a second envelope and said to me, in a quick whisper: "And this you will give to Esther." "To Esther?" "To Esther." Any one else in my place would have asked twice as much for this. But I am not that sort.

* * *

"Father of the Universe," thought I, when I was going off with the "_Purim_" present, "what can my brother have written to the teacher's daughter? I must have a peep--only just a peep. I will not take a bite out of it. I will only look at it."

And I opened Esther's letter and read a whole "Book of Esther." I will repeat what was there, word for word.

"FROM MORDECAI TO ESTHER,

"And there was a man, a young man in Shushan--our village. His name was Mordecai and he loved a maiden called Esther. And the maiden was beautiful, charming. And the maiden found favour in his eyes. The maiden told this to no one because Mottel had asked her not to. Every day Mottel passes her house to catch a glimpse of Esther. And when the time comes for Esther to get married, Mottel will go with her under the wedding canopy."

* * *

What do you say to my brother--how he translated the "Book of Esther"? I should like to hear what the teacher will say to such a translation. But how comes the cat over the water? Hush! There's a way, as I am a Jew! I will change the letters, give the teacher's poem to Esther, and Esther's letter to the teacher. Let him rejoice. Afterwards, if there's a fine to do, will I be to blame? Don't all people make mistakes sometimes? Does it not happen that even the postmaster of our village himself forgets to give up letters? No such thing will ever happen to me. I am not that sort.

* * *

"Good '_Yom-tov_,' teacher," I cried the moment I rushed into "_Cheder_," in such an excited voice that he jumped. "My brother Mottel has sent you a '_Purim_' present, and he wishes you to live to next year."

And I gave the teacher Esther's letter. He opened it, read it, thought a while, looked at it again, turned it about on all sides, as if in search of something. "Search, search," I said to myself, "and you will find something."

The teacher put on his silver spectacles, read the letter, and did not even make a grimace. He only sighed--no more. Later he said to me: "Wait. I will write a few lines." And he took the pen and ink and started to write a few lines. Meanwhile, I turned around in the "_Cheder_." The teacher's wife gave me a little cake. And when no one was looking, I put into Esther's hand the poem and the money intended for her father. She reddened, went into a corner, and opened the envelope slowly. Her face burnt like fire, and her eyes blazed dangerously. "She doesn't seem to be satisfied with the '_Purim_' present," I thought. I took from the teacher the few lines he had written.

"Good '_Yom-tov_' to you, teacher," I cried in the same excited voice as when I had come in. "May you live to next year." And I was gone.

When I was on the other side of the door, Esther ran after me. Her eyes were red with weeping. "Here," she said angrily, "give this to your brother!"

On the way home I first opened the teacher's letter. He was more important. This is what was written in it.

"MY DEAR AND FAITHFUL PUPIL, MORDECAI N.

"I thank you many times for your '_Purim_' present that you have sent me. Last year and the year before, you sent me a real '_Purim_' present. But this year you sent me a new translation of the 'Book of Esther.' I thank you for it. But I must tell you, Mottel, that your rendering does not please me at all. Firstly, the city of Shushan cannot be called 'our village.' Then I should like to know where it says that Mordecai was a young man? And why do you call him Mottel? Which Mottel? And where does it say he loved a maiden? The word referring to Mordecai and Esther means 'brought up.' And your saying 'he will go with her under the wedding canopy' is just idiotic nonsense. The phrase you quote refers to Ahasuerus, not to Mordecai. Then again, it is nowhere mentioned in the 'Book of Esther' that Ahasuerus went with Esther under the wedding canopy. Does it need brains to turn a passage upside down? Every passage must have sense in it. Last year, and the year before, you sent me something different. This year you sent your teacher a translation of the 'Book of Esther,' and a distorted translation into the bargain. Well, perhaps it should be so. Anyhow, I am sending you back your translation, and may the Lord send you a good year, according to the wishes of your teacher."

* * *

Well, that's what you call a slap in the face. It serves my brother right. I should think he will never write such a "Book of Esther" again.

Having got through the teacher's letter, I must see what the teacher's daughter writes. On opening the envelope, the two paper "_roubles_" fell out. What the devil does this mean? I read the letter--only a few lines.

"Mottel, I thank you for the two '_roubles_.' You may take them back. I never expected such a '_Purim_' present from you. I want no presents from you, and certainly no charity."