Part 5

Mainly he did it for his fourteen-year-old son, Solomon, who caused him more unrest than all the others. He knew that the boy suffered, that he was of a different make-up than the other children. It had been very hard to make it possible for the boy to enter the gymnasium. It was at a time when hate toward Jews was already raging among their Gentile neighbors, and was more than ever in style. The boy was forced to suffer much at the hands of his Gentile schoolmates. Often, when he came home from school, his wet, frightened eyes seemed to ask the terrible question: “Why?” In the beginning, when he was yet a child, he asked his father: “Why did the Jews do that?” He was tortured so at school, but when the doctor was unable to give him a clear, true answer, he ceased to ask the question. Soon the child knew the full taste of being a Jew; he grew used to it, and bore it like a grown-up, with humility and patience. He asked no more questions, and it was seen that he withdrew further and further into himself. He had grown very much in the few years he spent in the gymnasium. He read serious books, and his forehead was already wrinkled. He was quiet, and a sneering smile towards everything and everybody lingered about his lips--the smile of the suffering Jew towards the rest of the world. The doctor was more ashamed of himself before the boy than before his other children, and felt that he must do something to change the situation. He knew the responsibility he carried in the eyes of the child: that it was his to take care that this boy too did not become an apostate. This drove him to think of some practical remedy. He often wanted to speak to the youngest son about the older one’s apostasy, but he could not. He was afraid to hear the truth from him--a thing he had heard from none heretofore--that the fact that Mikhail turned Christian was due more to himself than to Mikhail. He did nothing to prevent his son from changing faith. He already read the answer in the sneering smile that hung on the boy’s lips, and even more, in that the boy avoided the house more than he himself did. He spent most of his time at a schoolmate’s and was rarely seen in the house. Since the oldest brother had become a Christian he had avoided the house still more.

In this avoidance of the house the doctor saw a personal insult to himself. “The child avoids me,” he said to himself. This made him feel still worse and he would think: “Why does he avoid me?” And once when he was told that Solomon had not come home for two nights (those were the first nights after the arrival of the apostate), the doctor sought the boy out at his friend’s and spoke to him:

“Why don’t you come home? Why do you run from the house?”

“I run from the house? It is you, father, who runs from the house,” the boy answered boldly.

In the answer the doctor heard the whole inner truth--that he was lonely and avoided the house which he had built up; in this answer he heard the whole poverty, the whole forlornness of the situation in which he found himself, and he ceased to trouble his son with further questions.

The doctor began to take great interest in what was going on among the Jews. He read Russo-Jewish newspapers, thought much of Jewish interests, and found that a new Jewish life was beginning in Palestine, that Jews were emigrating there, and becoming farmers; that there was hope of a Jewish state being founded, where Judaism could develop freely and frankly to a strong and rich fruition. Palestine awoke in the doctor the memories of his childhood years, of his father, the storekeeper in a little town. He began to remember the Jewish holidays that his mother had always kept;--the Jewish Sabbath, when she lit candles; the congregation in which he had prayed; the Jewish Passover, when all in the house was so clean, and the family gathered at the Seder. It seemed to him that all this was closely related to Palestine; that it came from Palestine. And there, in the new Palestine this all would show itself stronger and freer, and the greater Judaism would begin to develop. His eyes were suddenly opened and he beheld in Palestine the great Jewish hope, so great, so holy, that repaid Jews for their suffering, that gave Jews the courage and the strength to bear all pain and insult for its sake. Palestine gave compensation for all. He remembered, as in a dream, the Bible and the pictures in the Bible, and his father. The pious storekeeper’s life suddenly grew more interesting to him. He saw a certain relationship between his father, the poor, forlorn Jew in his little home town, and the heroes of the Bible. It was Palestine that bound them together. His father, the storekeeper, came from the same land that knew Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. He loved the same life they loved, and had the same duties and customs they had. But here, in exile, where he was oppressed he could not live like the patriarchs, the tillers of the soil, the shepherds. Here he had but the Sabbath and the Passover that the Patriarchs had; but there, in the land of the patriarchs, the Jews lead a patriarchal life; they till the soil themselves; they guard the sheep themselves, and live in godly piety. There Judaism shows itself in its full richness and greatness, only there can one understand what a moral, religious people the Jews are and how clean and simple is the life they lead--there the Jewish holidays are celebrated in all their holiness. There he would see with the same eyes and feel with the same emotions the Jewish Passover, the Jewish Sabbath, the Jewish holiday, as long ago, when he was a child and lived in the house of his father and mother.

The doctor hid deep in his heart the secret that he had found Palestine as one hides a great treasure. He was afraid to confide it to his family. He became more restful and sure of himself. He no longer sat locked up in his cabinet whole nights long. He went no longer to the club; he began to eat together with his children; he even became very kind to his wife. A sort of hidden joy smiled out of his eyes, and no one knew what it was, just as no one knew the cause of the doctor’s sudden change of habits.

He wanted to share his secret with Solomon--the boy would understand the happiness the doctor had found, and he needed it as much as the doctor himself. This would be good for the child, even heal him, the doctor thought--and why not go there with the child after all? He resolved to speak to Solomon about it. And as his custom was not to leave anything undone till tomorrow, he wanted to speak at once, and entered the room where the boy sat over a book preparing his lesson. Without much ado, he patted the boy on the shoulder and said to him:

“Solomon, what do you think of Palestine?”

The boy opened wide his eyes and looked at the doctor in wonder.

“What made you think of this, papa?”

“Why not?”

It was soon seen that the boy had been interested in Palestine for a long time. He was organizing a student’s Zionist Circle and knew of all that was going on in Palestine, even to the name of all the Jewish colonies. The father was beside himself with joy, and continued to pat the boy’s shoulders.

“Would you like to go with me to Palestine?”

The boy looked at him in wonder.

“Do you really mean it, papa?”

“Of course, Solomon, of course. Don’t you see that I am being stifled here? What have I got here?”--The doctor wanted to get rid of all that had tortured him of late. He soon restrained himself, however, and ended his words, half-laughingly:

“Of course, of course, Solomon. The Jews there are great, fine--That is the place for Jewish life.” The doctor grew excited. “And you will go with me?”

“Of course I will go with you,” the child answered.

“Even if mama and the older children remain here?”

“Let them remain if they like this place better,” the child replied. “I want to be there where Jews are equal to others; where Jews are free.”

“Where Jews are free!” The doctor muttered as if to himself. “Good, good, Solomon. Let them remain, let them remain, if they feel at ease here.” The doctor was struggling with something in himself. He swiftly disengaged himself from the boy and left the house, fearing that tears would gush from his eyes,--his old, weary eyes, which sat in a heavy, sleepy body overgrown with so much fat that it seemed his heart could never be reached,--and yet....

From then on the father and the son found themselves in the strange house. They felt themselves richer and freer than the others, and looked at the mother, the sister, and the apostate, with pity. They would sit till midnight over a map of Palestine. Solomon would show where the Jewish colonies lay and what they were called; they had even begun to study Hebrew. The doctor gave it up after the second lesson--his head was too old to learn anything now. But not Solomon. When Solomon spoke of the new life, when father and son dreamed of Palestine, the old doctor’s heart grew glad, his great body became lighter, and he felt that things were as once upon a time, when he lived with his father, the storekeeper--once, in his childhood years....

One fine evening the doctor called together his family, and tried to deliver a long speech. He did not succeed. At the last moment, when all were solemnly assembled, he entered the room, struck the table with his fist and cried in a voice not altogether calm, “Who will go with me to Palestine?” When they looked at him in wonder, he turned to his sick wife whom he almost killed with his loud voice and his swift, unusual movements. “Do you want to go to Palestine with me, or to remain with your Gentile children?” The wife looked at him with fear in her eyes, and stammered: “I don’t know what you want of me. Where my children stay, I will stay also.”

“Good, good,” the doctor roared. “Stay wherever you want to. I will sell my property and separate from you. I and Solomon go to Palestine.”

At first they thought that it was a fit of anger on his part,--a thing that had taken place often during the last days,--and that he would quiet down. But they soon realized that he was in earnest. He ceased to occupy himself with his practice, and visited the brokers trying to sell the house. He succeeded in selling it for a very small sum.

Bidding farewell to none but Solomon, he left for Palestine to seek rest for them both in the new home of the Jews.

A few weeks later, on a fine morning, Dr. Lazarovitch came back home. Shamefacedly he stole into his house, ashamed to show himself to his wife and children. They thought that he had come to take Solomon and go away again. But they saw him resume his old practice. He was very quiet and even more reserved than before. They did not ask him where he had been nor what he had done.

He felt the questioning gaze of Solomon directed at him. The boy asked him nothing, but seeing that his father was practising again, he lost heart, and began to avoid the house as he had done after the apostasy of Mikhail. The doctor felt guilty in respect to the boy, and avoided all conversation with him. Each day the boy became paler and more self-centered.

Once the doctor suddenly called him into his cabinet. The boy was ghastly, and one could hear his heart beat. He was ashamed to look his father straight in the eyes.

“I couldn’t remain there. You understand, Solomon?” The father began quietly. “It was not what I expected. I thought it altogether different, altogether different. But it was not what I expected.”

The boy lifted his eyes, and looked at his father. His look made the doctor nervous. He forgot what he wanted to say to the boy regarding his return, and began talking in a shrill, nervous voice.

“It is too hot there. Not our climate. I couldn’t acclimatize myself there. I’m too old. You--perhaps--you are young, you might do it.”

The boy lifted his eyes again, and now it seemed to the doctor that he saw a vague smile on the pale, cracked lips of his son, as if an older, experienced man were looking at a boy. The doctor cried still more angrily.

“What are you smiling at? Understand, I could not. Understand? I thought Palestine a Jewish kingdom. I would find there what I had when I was a child. A Sabbath. Holiday. In one word, a Jewish kingdom. With a great Jewish life. Perhaps one is growing there. But I’m too old to grow with it. I needed ripe fruit. Understand? Ripe fruit. And there is none there. Everything is green, poor. I felt like a stranger, a man from another climate. Understand? Another climate. You feel like a strange plant in another climate.”

“Papa, it is not the climate that is to blame, but the plant.”

“Perhaps the plant. Too old. But there is nothing to laugh at.”

The boy pitied the man and said: “But papa, I’m not laughing. Who says I’m laughing?”

“You aren’t laughing? Thanks. And I tell you that I gave up my ideal because it is too hot there. And if you want to, go ahead and laugh at it, laugh at a sixty-five-year-old jackass who is your father, who could not acclimatize himself in a strange climate because it was too warm. Laugh at it if you want to,” Dr. Lazarovitch yelled.

Two large tears shone in the boy’s eyes, and swiftly, without a single word, he left the room.

Since then both father and son avoid each other, and when they meet they are ashamed to look into each other’s eyes.

--Translated by Jacob Robbins.

A GAME

ABRAHAM RAISIN

Reaction, like a black vulture, had spread its wings over all that had lived and struggled. The best and bravest of the revolutionary spirits lost their courage and many were forced to wander forth, to escape to foreign lands, some with the hope of coming back in better and more tolerant times, others in doubt and despair.

Among the latter was Chayim Grossman, who from his twentieth to his thirtieth year, had worked in the movement. More than one barricade had he thrown up in Warsaw’s streets, more than one revolutionists’ banner had he waved from its house tops, and not a few times had he exposed himself to the peril of the bullets. But always his courage and his faith in the holy cause had helped him to come forth from the battle, safe in body and undaunted in spirit.

But at last even he lost courage, and as he reviewed his past activities, for which hanging itself were little punishment indeed, he was overcome by terror. Every night in his dreams there would appear hangmen, in red garb, laughing loudly at him through grinning teeth, and they would drag him somewhere up a high scaffold.... He would be forced to crawl and climb, upward, upward, until he reached the top, which was frightfully high. And now he would fall over the edge, and on waking would find himself bathed in a cold sweat, while his terror was greater than ever.

Shadow-like, he slunk through the “peaceful” streets, trembling at sight of every officer and beholding in every civilian--a spy....

There was only one course left--to escape. But strangely enough, the self-same Grossman who during his ten years’ service in the movement had stolen across the border time and again, now developed a sudden fear at the notion of crossing the boundary-line with the same trustworthy agents as heretofore. And when his more intimate friends, also former fighters for the cause, would ask him, “Chayim, why do you delay your escape?” he would reply dispiritedly, “I tremble at thought of the border. They’re watching very closely now.”

And of all these friends, once upon a time leaders in the revolution, not one would attempt to give him the courage to cross in the old way. This disheartened Chayim all the more, and like a caged beast he paced back and forth, a solitary shadow in the great city of Warsaw, seeking some avenue of escape from his danger....

One day, walking thus engrossed in thought through the Saxon Gardens, where at every turn a gendarme was encountered, Chayim came face to face with Henich, the son of wealthy parents, who had, however, been very active in the days of the revolution and had been very friendly towards Chayim. Henich took him to a secluded spot and whispered to him, “Chayim, do you want to leave the country in the regular, legal manner?”

“Do you need to ask that?” replied Chayim quickly.

“Well, just listen. My sister Eda is about to leave for Berlin, to meet her husband, Sandrovitch. The passport is made out in the name of both of them, but he left earlier than he expected ... so that you can travel with the passport, as her husband....”

There flashed upon Chayim’s memory the black eyes and the bewitching countenance of Eda, whom he had known well and with whom, in the days of the revolution, he had spoken only of matters connected with the struggle. Now, learning that she was already married, he felt a queer twinge at his heart, and growing pale with emotion, he answered quickly, “Yes, certainly, I’ll go as her husband.” Then noticing that Henich eyed him suspiciously, he added: “I’ll avoid capture.”

Henich, being an amiable sort of chap, slapped him on the back, “You--captured. That doesn’t worry us at all!” he exclaimed.

Then, after having made arrangements for leaving in about a week, they separated.

That week went by as slowly as a year for Chayim. But not because he was so eager to leave Warsaw and its terrors behind; rather because of his desire to travel as the husband of dear, beautiful Eda. The make-believe relationship began to take on for him a most serious aspect, and as he lay in his room, which was situated in a remote section of the town, he conjured up the pretty face of Sandrovitch’s young wife Eda, who would soon be under his own personal care. A trembling, new-born longing took possession of his heart....

Boruch Sandrovitch--Boruch Sandrovitch. He repeated the other man’s name over and over again, so as not to betray himself at the border. And so, muttering the name countless times during the week he began to feel that from now on he was no longer Chayim Grossman, former revolutionist, but Boruch Sandrovitch, a student of Berlin University, a fair-haired fellow of twenty-five, whom the beautiful Eda loved to distraction....

“Well, here is your wife!” Eda’s father, a tall, broad-boned Jew, with a patriarchal beard, and gold-rimmed spectacles on his aristocratic nose, turned to Chayim, who, at the words, was overcome by a sensation of sweet warmth that suffused his entire being. He stole a bashful glance at the slender Eda, who made a pretty picture as she stood there in her traveling clothes, smiling sweetly at him.

“Take good care of her,” added Eda’s mother, a woman of some fifty years, with large eyes and dressed in black.

“She’ll be as precious as the apple of my eye,” blurted Chayim fervently, and of a sudden blushed at the impassioned tones of his promise.

“And be sure not to forget that you’re Boruch Sandrovitch,” admonished Eda, beaming at him with the same sweet, friendly smile.

“I’ll remember that only too well,” exploded Chayim, with the same passion as before.

“Here is the passport; I am now in your hands,” declared Eda, giving him the book.

Chayim placed it carefully in his pocket, and gazing at Eda most eloquently he managed to exclaim: “This is a most pleasant charge.” And immediately he regretted his words.

It was three hours’ ride to the border. Chayim sat the whole time at Eda’s side, and wishing to become more intimate, he suddenly turned to her and suggested, “I think it would help to avert suspicion on our journey, if I were to use ‘thou’ in addressing you, and you likewise with me.”

Having offered this short, practical suggestion he turned red, and his heart beat wildly, as he waited for her approval.

“I really am in doubt,” she hesitated. “In high society man and wife use ‘you’ in addressing each other.”

“But that might arouse suspicion in our case--I mean, that ‘thou’ would be more to our purpose,” urged Chayim.

She finally consented.

Unfortunately, however, Chayim could find no opportunity for using the coveted familiar pronoun. At last the longed-for chance arrived. He was gazing out of the window. The sun, like a blood-red disc, was setting behind a thick forest, gilding the tree-tops with its dying splendor. Chayim, entranced by the scene, cried out, “Just see, Eda, see thou, how beautiful!”

Eda arose and looked through the window. “Wonderful!” she exclaimed.

Chayim was right beside her, but instead of looking at the beautiful sunset he sought to penetrate Eda Sandrovitch’s face, and he grew sad.

A moment later and the sun had sunk beneath the horizon, as if the black forest had engulfed it.

They sat down and Eda began: “You know--”

“Thou knowest,” corrected Chayim. “We might betray ourselves.”

“Don’t worry on that score,” she replied, stubbornly. “You know that we’re almost at the border.”

“We should be all the more careful for that very reason. So then, what dost thou say, Eda?”

Eda smiled good-naturedly, replying, “If you desire to play the game, by all means, with the greatest of pleasure!” And then, more playfully, she added, “I say, my dear Sandrovitch, we’re soon at the border.”

“What of that, darling Eda?” He smiled in return, clasping her velvety little hand.

She did not withdraw her hand. This made Chayim bolder. He pressed closer to her, ever so close, and whispered tenderly, “What a sweet, darling child thou art!”

She gazed at him with her large black eyes, in silence.

At last they pulled into Alexandrovna, the border station. The train suddenly became alive with nervous activity. A tall gendarme with forbidding mustache entered, crying out in official tones, “Passports!”

Chayim Grossman pulled out his passport and gave it to the gendarme.

“And you?” asked the latter in Russian, turning to Eda.

“She is my wife,” answered Chayim, in the same language.

“Very well,” was the response, as if approving the match. Chayim felt distinctly flattered with the approval.

The gendarme collected the passports of the other occupants and then left, locking the door of the coach.

“And now we are in very truth man and wife,” whispered Chayim passionately to Eda.

“Yes, of course,” Eda nodded.

Her acquiescence made Chayim very happy, and he turned boldly to her, asking tenderly, “Wouldst thou have a bite to eat?”

She smiled, and replied good-humoredly, “Not I, but perhaps you would--that is, thou wouldst, beloved,” she hastened to correct herself.

“Yes, I’m really hungry.”

He arose, took down her little traveling bag, which contained their lunch, and gave it to her.

She opened it and took out the food that her mother had prepared.

“Long life to my good mother,” blessed Eda, between bites, and her large black eyes grew larger and darker....

“Eat, Sandrovitch,” she urged Chayim.

“Yes, my little dove. I’ll eat.”

Eda burst into laughter.

“You’re a perfect artist,” she whispered into his ear.

“Why?” he asked....

“Good heavens!” she replied, feigning anger because he did not understand, and resumed her eating.

At this point the gendarme returned, accompanied by an officer, who returned the passports.

“Boruch Sandrovitch!”

“Here,” answered Grossman, not without inner misgivings.

The officer examined him closely, gave him his passport and turned to Eda.

“And you?”

“My husband,” she replied, pointing to Chayim.

“All right,” assented the officer, genially.

And Chayim Grossman, forgetting the revolution, the barricades, and his hatred of the army, felt deep in his heart a warm gratitude towards that young officer; a few moments later, when the gendarme and the official had gone, he remarked, “There are some good fellows among them, at that.”

“Devil take them, every one,” dissented Eda, much to Chayim’s displeasure.

The train began to move.

“We’ve crossed the border!” she exclaimed joyously.

“We’re husband and wife just the same.... Germany is no better than Russia.... We must continue to say ‘thou’ to one another.”

“As you say,” answered Eda indifferently. “Let it be ‘thou.’”