Chapter 4

"What sort of wine have you there? Passover wine?" (He tasted it and pursed up his lips.) "P-s-ss! The best wine in the world." (He drank more.) "It's a long time since I tasted such wine." (To Yossel the wine-merchant's son, with a laugh.) "The devil take your father's cellar. I saw there barrels upon barrels. And of the finest raisins. Ha! ha! To your health, children. May the Lord help you to be honest, 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, Mazeppa turned to us, his tongue failing him as he spoke:

"Then we have carried out the duty of eating together on '_L'ag Beomer_.' 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."

"Ha? 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, shah! 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. Ha! ha!"

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 Elya stopped to ask a question:

"'_Rebbe_,' did your teacher also flog you as you flog us?"

"What? And what sort of floggings? Ha! ha!"

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 "_L'ag Beomer_." 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.... Oh yes, you l-love me?"

"Like a pain in the eyes," replied Elya.

"Well, I know you l-love me," went on the teacher.

"May the Lord love you as we do," said Elya.

We were frightened, and whispered to Elya:

"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. Hal! Hal! Hal! Rrrssss!"

And 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 Mazeppa?

* * *

"Children," said Elya to us, "why are we sitting like lumps of stone? Let us think of a punishment for Mazeppa."

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. Elya 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 soon 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: "'_Rebbe_,' murderers!"

"What will happen?"

"Nothing. We will run away, and he will shout, 'Hear, O Israel!'"

"How long will he shout?"

"Until he gets used to it."

Without another word, Elya 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 Mazeppa?

"Why do you stand there like clay images?" said Elya to us. "The Lord has performed a miracle. Mazeppa has fallen into our hands. Let us dance for joy."

We took hands and danced around the sleeping Mazeppa like savages. We danced and leaped and sang like lunatics.

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 God 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 God 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 cucumbers 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 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 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 glassy 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 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. 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 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, 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."

When he got no satisfaction from his mother, Abramtzig waited for his father, who had gone off to the market with a treasure of boxes.

"Children, guess what present father will bring us from the market," said Abramtzig. 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 aright. And I am afraid you will not guess aright either. Peisa 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 three children gathered around their father.

"Father, what is it--that?"

"It is grass."

"What is grass?"

"It is a bunch of greens for '_Shevuous_.' Jews need grass for '_Shevuous_.'"

"Where do they get it, father?"

"Where do they get it? H'm! 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:

"Pessa, 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, always cross, and always 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 "_Shevuous_" 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.

Greens for "Shevuous"

On the eve of "_Shevuous_," I induced my mother--peace be unto her!--to let me go off outside the town, by myself, to gather greens for the Festival.

And my mother let me go off alone to gather the greens for the Festival. May she have a bright Paradise for that!

A real pleasure is a pleasure that one enjoys by one's self, without a companion, and without a single argument. I was alone, free as a bird, in the big cultivated field. Above me was the whole of the blue cap called "the sky." For me alone shone the beautiful queen of the day, the sun. For my sake there came together, here in the big field, all the singers and warblers and dancers. For my sake there was spread before me the row of tall sunflowers, and the delicate growths were scattered all over the field by a benevolent nature. No one bothered me. No one prevented me from doing what I liked. No one saw me but God. And I could do what I liked. If I liked I might sing. If I liked I might shout and scream at the top of my voice. If I liked I might make a horn with my hands, and blow out a melody. If I liked I might roll on the green grass just as I was, curling myself up like a hedgehog. Who was there to give me orders? And whom would I pay heed to? I was free--I was free.

The day was so warm, the sun so beautiful, the sky so clear, the field so green, the grass so fresh, my heart so gay, and my soul so joyful that I forgot completely I was a stranger in the field and had merely come out to cut green boughs for "_Shevuous_." I imagined I was a prince, and the whole field that my eyes rested on, and everything in the field, and even the blue sky above it--all were mine. I owned everything, and could do what I liked with it--I, and no one else. And like an overlord who had complete control of everything, I longed to show my power, my strength, my authority--all that I could and would do.

* * *

First of all I was displeased with the tall giants with the yellow hats--the sunflowers. Suddenly they appeared to me as my enemies. And all the other plants with and without stalks, the beans and beanstalks, were enemies too. They were the Philistines that had settled on my ground. Who had sent for them? And those thick green plants lying on the ground, with huge green heads--the cabbages, what are they doing here? They will only get drunk and bring a misfortune upon me. Let them go into the earth. I do not want them. Angry thoughts and fierce instincts awoke within me. A curious feeling of vengefulness took possession of me. I began to avenge myself of my enemies. And what a vengeance it was!

I had with me all the tools I would need for cutting the green boughs for the Festival--pocket-knife with two blades, and a sword--a wooden sword, but a sharp one.

This sword had remained with me after "_L'ag Beomer_." And although I had carried it with me when I had gone with my comrades to do battle outside the town, yet I could swear to you, though you may believe me without an oath, that the sword had not spilled one drop of blood. It was one of those weapons that are carried about in times of peace. There was not a sign of war. It was quiet and peaceful around and about. I carried the sword because I wanted to. For the sake of peace, one must have in readiness swords and guns and rifles and cannon, horses and soldiers. May they never be needed for ill, as my mother used to say when she was making preserves.

* * *

It is the same all the world over. In a war, one aims first at the leaders, the officers. It is better still if one can hit the general. After that the soldiers fall like chaff, in any event. Therefore you will not be surprised to hear that, first of all, I fell upon Goliath the Philistine. I gave him a good blow on the head with my sword, and a few good blows from the back. And the wicked one was stretched at my feet, full length. After that I knocked over a good many more wicked ones. I pulled the stalks out of the ground, and threw them to the devil. The short, fat green enemies I attacked in a different manner. Wherever I could, I took the green heads off. The others I trampled down with my feet. I made a heap of ashes of them.