Chapter 8

Naturally, no one would dream of asking Isshur what became of the money donated to the synagogue, or of the money he got for the candles, and the money thrown into the collection boxes. Nor did they ask him any other questions relating to the management of the synagogue. He was the master of the whole concern. And whom was he to give an account to? The people were glad if he left them alone, and that he did not throw the keys into their faces. "Here, keep this place going yourselves. Provide it with wood and water, candles and matches. The towels must be kept clean. A slate has to be put on the roof frequently, and the walls and ceiling have to be whitewashed. The stands have to be repaired, and the books bought. And what about the '_Chanukali_' lamp? And what of the palm-branch and the citron? And where is this, and where is that?" And though every one knew that all the things he mentioned not only did not mean an outlay of money, but were, on the contrary, a source of income, yet no one dared interfere. All these belonged to the beadle. They were his means of livelihood. "The fine salary I get from you! One's head might grow hard on it. It's only enough for the water for the porridge," said Isshur. And the people were silent.

The people were silent, though they knew very well that "_Reb_" Isshur was saving money. They knew very well he had plenty of money. It was possible he even lent out money on interest, in secret, on good securities, of course. He had a little house of his own, and a garden, and a cow. And he drank a good glassful of brandy every day. In the winter he wore the best fur coat. His wife always wore good boots without holes. She made herself a new cloak not long ago, out of the public money. "May she suffer through it for our blood, Father in heaven!"

That's what the villagers muttered softly through their teeth, so that the beadle might not hear them. When he approached, they broke off and spoke of something else. They blinked their eyes, breathed hard, and took from the beadle a pinch of snuff with their two fingers. "Excuse me."

This "excuse me" was a nasty "excuse me." It was meant to be flattering, to convey the sense of--"Excuse me, your snuff is surely good." And, "Excuse me, give me a pinch of snuff, and go in peace."

Isshur understood the compliment, and also the hint. He knew the people loved him like sore eyes. He knew the people wished to take away his office from him as surely as they wished to live. But he heeded them as little as Haman heeds the "_Purim_" rattles. He had them in his fists, and he knew what to do.

* * *

He who wants to find favour with everybody will find favour with nobody. And if one has to bow down, let it be to the head, not to the feet.

Isshur understood these two wise sayings. He sought the favour of the leaders of the community. He did everything they told him to, lay under their feet, and flew on any errand on which they sent him. And he flattered them until it made one sick. There is no need to say anything of what went on at the elections. Then Isshur never rested. Whoever has not seen Isshur at such a time has seen nothing. Covered with perspiration, his hat pushed back on his head, Isshur kneaded the thick mud with his high boots, and with his big stick. He flew from one committee-man to another, worked, plotted, planned, told lies, and carried on intrigues and intrigues without an end.

Isshur was always first-class at carrying on intrigues. He could have brought together a wall and a wall. He could make mischief in such a way that every person in the town should be enraged with everybody else, quarrel and abuse his neighbour, and almost come to blows. And he was innocent of everything. You must know that Isshur had the town very cleverly. He thought within himself: "Argue, quarrel, abuse one another, my friends, and you will forget all about the doings of Isshur the beadle."

That they should forget his doings was an important matter to Isshur, because, of late, the people had begun to talk to him, and to demand from him an account of the money he had taken for the synagogue. And who had done this? The young people--the young wretches he had always hated and tortured.

They say that children become men, and men become children. Many generations have grown up, become men, and gone hence. The youngsters became greybeards. The little wretches became self-supporting young men. The young men got married and became householders. The householders became old men, and still Isshur was Isshur. But all at once there grew up a generation that was young, fresh, curious--a generation which was called heathens, insolent, fearless, devils, wretches. The Lord help and preserve one from them.

"How does Isshur come to be an overlord? He is only a beadle. He ought to serve us, and not we him. How long more will this old Isshur with the long legs and big stick rule over us? The account. Where is the account? We must have the account."

This was the demand of the new generation that was made up entirely of heathens, insolent ones, fearless ones, devils and wretches. They shouted in the yard of the synagogue at the top of their voices. Isshur pretended to be deaf, and not to hear anything. Afterwards, he began to drive them out of the yard. He extinguished the candles in the synagogue, locked the door, and threw out the boys. Then he tried to turn against them the anger of the householders of the village. He told them of all their misdeeds--that they mocked at old people, and ridiculed the committee-men. In proof of his assertions, he showed the men a piece of paper that one of the boys had lost. On it was written a little poem.

Who would have thought it? A foolish poem, and yet what excitement it caused in the village--what a revolution. Oh! oh! It would have been better if Isshur had not found it, or having found it, had not shown it to the committee-men. It would have been far better for him. It may be said that this song was the beginning of Isshur's end. The foolish committee-men, instead of swallowing down the poem, and saying no more about it, injured themselves by discussing it. They carried it about from one to the other so long, until the people learnt it off by heart. Some one sang it to an old melody. And it spread everywhere. Workmen sang it at their work; cooks in their kitchens; young girls sitting on the doorsteps; mothers sang their babies to sleep with it. The most foolish song has a lot of power in it. When the throat is singing the head is thinking. And it thinks so long until it arrives at a conclusion. Thoughts whirl and whirl and fret one so long, until something results. And when one's imagination is enkindled, a story is sure to grow out of it.

The story that grew out of this song was fine and brief. You may listen to it. It may come in useful to you some day.

* * *

The heathens, insolent ones, fearless ones, devils and wretches burrowed so long, and worked so hard to overthrow Isshur, that they succeeded in arriving at a certain road. Early one morning they climbed into the attic of the synagogue. There they found the whole treasure--a pile of candles, several "_poods_" of wax, a score of new "_Tallissim_," a bundle of prayer-books of different sorts that had never been used. It may be that to you these things would not have been of great value, but to a beadle they were worth a great deal. This treasure was taken down from the attic very ceremoniously. I will let you imagine the picture for yourself. On the one hand, Isshur with the big nose, terrifying eyebrows, and the beard of brass that started thick and heavy, and finished up with a few thin terrifying hairs. On the other hand, the young heathens, insolent ones, fearless ones, devils and wretches dragging out his treasure. But you need not imagine Isshur lost himself. He was not of the people that lose themselves for the least thing. He stood looking on, pretending to be puzzling himself with the question of how these things came to be in the attic of the synagogue.

Early next morning, the following announcement was written in chalk on the door of the synagogue:--

"Memorial candles are sold here at wholesale price."

Next day there was a different inscription. On the third day still another one. Isshur had something to do. Every morning he rubbed out with a wet rag the inscriptions that covered the whole of the door of the synagogue. Every Sabbath morning, on their desks the congregants found bundles of letters, in which the youngsters accused the beadle and his bought-over committee-men of many things.

Isshur had a hard time of it. He got the committee-men to issue a proclamation in big letters, on parchment.

"Hear all! As there have arisen in our midst a band of hooligans, scamps, good-for-nothings who are making false accusations against the most respected householders of the village, therefore we, the leaders of the community, warn these false accusers openly that we most strongly condemn their falsehoods, and if we catch any of them, we will punish him with all the severities of the law."

Of course, the boys at once tore down this proclamation. A second was hung in its place. The boys did not hesitate to hang up a proclamation of their own in its stead. And the men found on their desks fresh letters of accusation against the beadle and the committee-men. In a word, it was a period when the people did nothing else but write. The committee-men wrote proclamations, and the boys, the scamps, wrote letters. This went on until the Days of Mourning arrived--the time of the elections. And there began a struggle between the two factions. On the one side there was Isshur and his patrons, the committee-men; and on the other side, the youngsters, the heathens, the scamps, and their candidates. Each faction tried to attract the most followers by every means in its power. One faction tried impassioned words, enflamed speeches; the other, soft words, roast ducks, dainties, and liberal promises. And just think who won? You will never guess. It was we young scamps who won. And we selected our own committee-men from amongst ourselves--young men with short coats, poor men, beggars. It is a shame to tell it, but we chose working men--ordinary working men.

* * *

I am afraid you are anxious for my story to come to an end. You want to know how long it is going to last? Or would you rather I told you how our new committee-men made up their accounts with the old beadle? Do you want to hear how the poor old beadle was dragged through the whole village by the youngsters, with shouting and singing? The boys carried in front of the procession the whole treasure of candles, wax, "_Tallissim_" and prayer-books which they had found in the attic of the synagogue. No, I don't think you will expect me to tell you of these happenings.

Take revenge of our enemy--bathe in his blood, so to speak? No! We could not do that. I shall tell you the end in a few words.

Last New Year I was at home, back again in the village of my birth. A lot, a lot of water had flown by since the time I have just told you of. Still, I found the synagogue on the same spot. And it had the same Ark of the Law, the same curtains, the same reader's-desk, and the same hanging candlesticks. But the people were different; they were greatly changed. It was almost impossible to recognize them. The old people of my day were all gone. No doubt there were a good many more stones and inscriptions in the holy place. The young folks had grown grey. The committee-men were new. The cantor was new. There was a new beadle, and new melodies, and new customs. Everything was new, and new, and new.

One day--it was "_Hoshana Rabba_"--the cantor sang with his choir, and the people kept beating their willow-twigs against the desks in front of them. (It seems this custom has remained unchanged.) And I noticed from the distance a very old man, white-haired, doubled-up, with a big nose, and terrifying eyebrows, and a beard that started thick and heavy, but finished up with a few straggling, terrifying hairs. I was attracted to this old man. I went over to him, and put out my hand.

"Peace be unto you!" I said. "I think you are '_Reb_' Isshur the beadle?"

"The beadle? What beadle? I am not the beadle this long time. I am a bare willow-twig this long time. Heh! heh!"

That is what the old man said to me in a tremulous voice. And he pointed to the bare willow-twigs at his feet. A bitter smile played around his grizzled beard that started thick and heavy, but finished off with a few straggling, terrifying hairs.

Boaz the Teacher

That which I felt on the first day my mother took me by the hand to "_Cheder_" must be what a little chicken feels, after one has made the sacrificial blessing over her and is taking her to be slaughtered. The little chicken struggles and flutters her wings. She understands nothing, but feels she is not going to have a good time, but something different.... It was not for nothing my mother comforted me, and told me a good angel would throw me down a "_groschen_" from the ceiling. It was not for nothing she gave me a whole apple and kissed me on the brow. It was not for nothing she asked Boaz to deal tenderly with me--just a little more tenderly because "the child has only recovered from the measles."

So said my mother, pointing to me, as if she were placing in Boaz's hands a rare vessel of crystal which, with one touch, would be a vessel no more--God forbid!

My mother went home happy and satisfied, and "the child that had only recovered from the measles," remained behind, alone. He cried a little, but soon wiped his eyes, and was introduced to the holiness of the "_Torah_" and a knowledge of the ways of the world. He waited for the good angel to throw him the "_groschen_" from the ceiling.

Oh, that good angel--that good angel! It would have been better if my mother had never mentioned his name, because when Boaz came over, took hold of me with his dry, bony hand and thrust me into a chair at the table, I was almost faint, and I raised my head to the ceiling. I got a good portion from Boaz for this. He pulled me by the ear and shouted:

"Devil, what are you looking at?"

Of course, "the child that had only recovered from the measles" began to wail. It was then he had his first good taste of the teacher's floggings. "A little boy must not look where it is forbidden. A little boy must not bleat like a calf."

* * *

Boaz's system of teaching was founded on one thing--whippings. Why whippings? He explained the reason by bringing forward the case of the horse. Why does a horse go? Because it is afraid. What is it afraid of? Whippings. And it is the same with a child. A child must be afraid. He must fear God and his teacher, and his father and his mother, a sin and a bad thought. And in order that a child should be really afraid, he must be laid down, in true style, and given a score or so lashes. There is nothing better in the world than the rod. May the whip live long!

So says Boaz. He takes the strap slowly in his hands, without haste, examines it on all sides as one examines a citron. Then he betakes himself to his work in good earnest, cheerfully singing a song by way of accompaniment.

Wonder of wonders! Boaz never counts the strokes, and never makes a mistake. Boaz flogs, and is never angry. Boaz is not a bad tempered man. He is only angry when a boy will not let himself be whipped, tries to tear himself free, or kicks out his legs. Then it is different. At such times Boaz's eyes are bloodshot, and he flogs without counting and without singing his little song. A little boy must be still while his teacher flogs him. A little boy must have manners, even when he is being flogged.

Boaz is also angry if a boy laughs when he is being whipped. (There are children who laugh when they are beaten. People say this is a disease.) To Boaz laughing is a danger to the soul. Boaz has never laughed as long as he is alive. And he hates to see any one else laughing. One might easily have promised the greatest reward to the person who could swear he once saw Boaz laughing. Boaz is not a man for laughter. His face is not made for it. If Boaz laughed, he would surely look more terrible than another man crying. (There are such faces in the world.) And really, what sort of a thing is laughter? It is only idlers who laugh, empty-headed gools, good-for-nothings, devil-may-care sort of people. Those who have to work for a living, or carry on their shoulders the burden of a knowledge of the Holy Law and of the ways of the world, have no time to laugh. Boaz never has time. He is either teaching or whipping. That is to say, he teaches while he whips, and whips while he teaches. It would be hard to divide these two--to say where teaching ended and whipping began.

And you must know that Boaz never whipped us for nothing. There was always a reason for it. It was either for not learning our lessons, for not wanting to pray well, for not obeying our fathers and mothers, for not looking in, and for not looking out, for just looking, for praying too quickly, for praying too slowly, for speaking too loudly, for speaking too softly, for a torn coat, a lost button, a pull or a push, for dirty hands, a soiled book, for being greedy, for running, for playing--and so on, and so on, without an end.

One might say we were whipped for every sin that a human being can commit. We were whipped for the sake of the next world as well as this world. We were whipped on the eve of every Sabbath, every feast and every fast. We were told that if we had not earned the whippings yet, we would earn them soon, please God. And Boaz gave us all the whippings we ought to have had from our friends and relatives. They gave the pleasant task in to his hands. Then we got whippings of which the teacher said:

"You surely know yourself what they are for." And whippings just for nothing. "Let me see how a little boy lets himself be whipped." In a word, it was whippings, rods, leathers, fears and tears. These prevailed at that time, in our foolish little world, without a single solution to the problems they brought into being, without a single remedy for the evils, without a single ray of hope that we would ever free ourselves from the fiendish system under which we lived.

And the good angel of whom my mother spoke? Where was he--that good angel?

* * *

I must confess there were times when I doubted the existence of this good angel. Too early a spark of doubt entered my heart. Too early I began to think that perhaps my mother had fooled me. Too early I became acquainted with the emotion of hatred. Too early, too early, I began to hate my teacher Boaz.

And how could one help hating him? How, I ask you, could one help hating a teacher who does not allow you to lift your head? That you may not do--this you may not say. Don't stand here. Don't go there. Don't talk to So-and-so. How can one help hating a man who has not in him a germ of pity, who rejoices in another's pains, bathes in other's tears, and washes himself in other's blood? Can there be a more shameful word than flogging? And what can be more disgraceful than to strip anybody stark naked and put him in a corner? But even this was not enough for Boaz. He required you to undress yourself, to pull your own little shirt over your own head, and to stretch yourself face downwards. The rest Boaz managed.

And not only did Boaz flog the boys himself, but his assistants helped him--his lieutenants, as he called them, naturally under his direction, lest they might not deliver the full number of strokes. "A little less learning and a little more flogging," was his rule. He explained the wisdom of his system in this way: "Too much learning dulls a boy, and a whipping too many does not hurt. Because, what a boy learns goes straight to his head, and his senses are quickened and his brains loaded. With the floggings it is the exact opposite. Before the effects of the flogging reach the brain the blood is purified, and by this means the brain is cleared. Well, do you understand?"

And Boaz never ceased from purifying our blood, and clearing our brain. And woe unto us! We did not believe any more in the good angel that looked down upon us from above. We realized that it was only a fairy-tale, an invented story by which we were fooled into going to Boaz's "_Cheder_." And we began to sigh and groan because of our sufferings under Boaz. And we also began to make plans, to talk and argue how to free ourselves from our galling slavery.

* * *

In the melancholy moments between daylight and darkness, when the fiery red sun is about to bid farewell to the cold earth for the night--in these melancholy moments, when the happy daylight is departing, and on its heels is treading silently the still night, with its lonely secrets--in these melancholy moments, when the shadows are climbing on the walls growing broader and longer--in these melancholy moments between the afternoon and the evening prayers, when the teacher is at the synagogue, and his wife is milking the goat or washing the crockery, or making the "_Borsht_"--then we youngsters came together at "_Cheder_," beside the stove. We sat on the floor, our legs curled up under us, like innocent lambs. And there in the evening darkness, we talked of our terrible Titus, our angel of death, Boaz. The bigger boys, who had been at "_Cheder_" some time, told us the most awful tales of Boaz. They swore by all the oaths they could think of that Boaz had flogged more than one boy to death, that he had already driven three women into their graves, and that he had buried his one and only son. We heard such wild tales that our hair stood on end. The older boys talked, and the younger listened--listened with all their senses on the alert. Black eyes gleamed in the darkness. Young hearts palpitated. And we decided that Boaz had no soul. He was a man without a soul. And such a man is compared to an animal, to an evil spirit that it is a righteous act to get rid of. Thousands of plans, foolish, childish plans, were formed in our childish brains. We hoped to rid ourselves of our angel of death, as we called Boaz. Foolish children! These foolish plans buried themselves deep in each little heart that cried out to the Lord to perform a miracle. We asked that either the books should be burnt, or the strap he whipped us with taken to the devil, or--or.... No one wished to speak of the last alternative. They were afraid to bring it to their lips. And the evil spirit worked in their hearts. The young fancies were enkindled, and the boys were carried away by golden dreams. They dreamed of freedom, of running down hill, of wading barefoot in the river, playing horses, jumping over the logs. They were good, sweet, foolish dreams that were not destined to be realized. There was heard a familiar cough, a familiar footfall. And our hearts were frozen. All our limbs were paralysed, deadened. We sat down at the table and started our lessons with as much enthusiasm as if we were starting for the gallows. We were reading aloud, but still our lips muttered: "Father in Heaven, will there never come an end to this tyrant, this Pharaoh, this Haman, this Gog-Magog? Or will there ever come a time when we shall be rid of this hard, hopeless, dark tyranny? No, never, never!"

That is the conclusion we arrived at, poor innocent, foolish children!

* * *

"Children, do you want to hear of a good plan that will rid us of our Gog-Magog?"