"Listen, children, to what I will ask you. I am going to ask you something."

"Ask it," we all cried in one voice.

"What is the law in a case where, for example, one of us suddenly becomes ill?"

"It is not good," we replied.

"No, I don't mean that. I mean something else. I mean, if one of us is ill does he go to 'Cheder,' or does he stay at home?"

"Of course he stays at home," we all answered together.

"Well, what is the law if two of us get ill?"

"Two remain at home."

"Well, and if three get ill?" Velvel went on asking us, and we went on answering him.

"Three stay at home."

"What would happen if, for example, we all took ill?"

"We should all stay at home."

"Then let a sickness come upon us all," he cried joyfully. We replied angrily:

"The Lord forbid! Are you mad, or have you lost your reason?"

"I am not mad, and I have not lost my reason. Only you are fools, yes. Do I mean that we are to be really ill? I mean that we are to pretend to be ill, so that we shall not have to go to 'Cheder.' Do you understand me now?"

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

"Remember, children, you are not to get out of bed tomorrow morning. And so that we may all be certain that not one of us will come to 'Cheder' tomorrow, let us promise one another, take an oath."

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



The Spinning-Top

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

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

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

But we will return to my friend Benny.

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That is how we conversed the whole time, until the teacher suspected that though I shook myself to and fro, my mind was far from the lesson. He suddenly put me through an examination.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, little boy, show me your hands. What are you doing with them?" And the teacher bent down and looked under the table.

You are clever boys, and you will understand yourselves what I had from the teacher, for the buttons, on my first day at "Cheder."

* * *

Whippings heal up; shame is forgotten. Benny and I became good friends. We were one soul. This is how it came about:—

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

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

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

"A quarter of the locust-beans."

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

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

"And I say thirty-six."

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

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

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

But suddenly....

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

It was just like that with me and my nose. I don't remember whether it was at the fifth or sixth blow that the door opened, and Benny "Polkovoi" came in. The boys freed me at once, and remained standing like blocks of wood. Benny took them in hand, one by one. He caught each boy by the ear, twisted it round, and said:

"Well, now you will know what it means to meddle with a widow's boy."

From that day the boys did not touch either me or my nose. They were afraid to begin with the widow's boy whom Benny had taken under his wing, into his guardianship, under his protection.

* * *

"The widow's boy"—- I had no other name at "Cheder." This was because my mother was a widow. She supported herself by her own work. She had a little shop in which were, for the most part, so far as I can remember, chalk and locust-beans—the two things that sell best in Mazapevka. Chalk is wanted for white-washing the houses, and locust-beans are a luxury. They are sweet, and they are light in weight, and they are cheap. Schoolboys spend on them all the money they get for breakfast and dinner. And the shopkeepers make a good profit out of them. I could never understand why my mother was always complaining that she could hardly make enough to pay the rent and my school-fees. Why school-fees? What about the other things a human being needs, food and clothes and boots, for example? She thought of nothing but the school-fees. "When the Lord punished me," she wailed, "and took my husband from me—and such a husband!—and left me all alone, I want my son to be a scholar, at any rate." What do you say to that? Do you think she did not come frequently to the "Cheder" to find out how I was getting on? I say nothing of the prayers she took good care I should recite every morning. She was always lecturing me to be even half as good as my father—peace be unto him! And whenever she looked at me, she said I was exactly like him—may I have longer years than he! And her eyes grew moist. Her face grew curiously careworn, and had a mournful expression.

I hope he will forgive me, I mean my father, from the other world, but I could not understand what sort of a man he had been. From what my mother told of him, he was always either praying or studying. Had he never been drawn, like me, out into the open, on summer mornings, when the sun was not burning yet, but was just beginning to show in the sky, marching rapidly onwards, a fiery angel, in a fiery chariot, drawn by fiery horses, into whose brilliant, burning, guinea-gold faces it was impossible to look? I ask you what taste have the week-day prayers on such a morning? What sort of a pleasure is it to sit and read in a stuffy room, when the golden sun is burning, and the air is hot as an iron frying-pan? At such a time, you are tempted to run down the hill, to the river—the beautiful river that is covered with a green slime. A peculiar odour, as of a warm bath, comes from the distance. You want to undress and jump into the warm water. Under the trees it is cool and the mud is soft and slippery. And the curious insects that live at the bottom of the river whirl around and about before your eyes. And curious, long-legged flies slip and slide on the surface of the water. At such a time one desires to swim over to the other side—over to where the green flags grow, their yellow and white stalks shimmering in the sun. A green, fresh fern looks up at you, and you go after it, plash-plash into the water, hands down, and feet up, so that people might think you were swimming. I ask you again, what pleasure is it to sit in a little room on a summer's evening, when the great dome of the sky is dropping over the other side of the town, lighting up the spire of the church, the shingle roofs of the baths, and the big windows of the synagogue. And on the other side of the town, on the common, the goats are bleating, and the lambs are frisking, the dust rising to the heavens, the frogs croaking. There is a tearing and a shrieking and a tumult as at a regular fair. Who thinks of praying at such a time? But if you talk to my mother, she will tell you that her husband—peace be unto him!—did not succumb to temptations. He was a different sort of a man. What sort of a man he was I do not know—asking his pardon. I only know that my mother annoys me very much. She reminds me every minute that I had a father; and throws it into my teeth that she has to pay my school-fees for me. For this she asks only two things of me—that I should learn diligently, and say my prayers willingly.

* * *

It could not be said that the widow's boy did not learn well. He was not in any way behind his comrades. But I cannot guarantee that he said his prayers willingly. All children are alike. And he was as mischievous as any other boy. He, like the rest, was fond of running away and playing, though there is not much to be said of the play of Jewish children. They tie a paper bag to a cat's tail so that she may run through the house like mad, smashing everything in her way. They lock the women's portion of the synagogue from the outside on Friday nights, so that the women may have to be rescued. They nail the teacher's shoes to the floor, or seal his beard to the table with wax when he is asleep. But oh, how many thrashings do they get when their tricks are found out! It may be gathered that everything must have an originator, a commander, a head, a leader who shows the way.

Our leader, our commander was Benny "Polkovoi." From him all things originated; and on our heads were the consequences. Benny, of the fat face and red, fishy eyes, always managed to escape scot free from the scrapes. He was always innocent as a dove. Whatever tricks or mischief we did, we always got the idea from Benny. Who taught us to smoke cigarettes in secret, letting the smoke out through our nostrils? Benny. Who told us to slide on the ice, in winter, with the peasant-boys? Benny. Who taught us to gamble with buttons—to play "odd or even," and lose our breakfasts and dinners? Benny. He was up to every trick, and taught us them all. He won our last "groschens" from us. And when it came to anything, Benny had disappeared. Playing was to us the finest thing in the world. And for playing we got the severest thrashings from our teacher. He said he would tear out of us the desire to play.

"Play in my house? You will play with the Angel of Death," said the teacher. And he used to empty our pockets of everything, and thrash us most liberally.

But there was one week of the year when we were allowed to play. Why do I say allowed? It was a righteous thing to play then.

And that week was the week of "Chanukah." And we played with spinning-tops.

* * *

It is true that the games of cards—bridge and whist, for example—which are played at "Chanukah" nowadays have more sense in them than the old game of spinning-tops. But when the play is for money, it makes no difference what it is. I once saw two peasant-boys beating one another's heads against the wall. When I asked them why they were doing this, if they were out of their minds, they told me to go my road. They were playing a game, for money, which of them would get tired the soonest of having his head banged on the wall.

The game of spinning-tops that have four corners, each marked with a letter of the alphabet, and are like dice, is very exciting. One can lose one's soul playing it. It is not so much the loss of the money as the annoyance of losing. Why should the other win? Why should the top fall on the letter G for him, and on the N for you? I suppose you know what the four letters stand for? N means no use. H means half. B means bad. And G means good. The top is a sort of lottery. Whoever is fortunate wins. Take, for example, Benny "Polkovoi." No matter how often he spins the top, it always falls on the letter G.

The boys said it was curious how Benny won. They kept putting down their money. He took on their bets. What did he care? He was a rich boy.

"G again. It's curious," they cried, and again opened their purses and staked their money. Benny whirled the top. It spun round and round, and wobbled from side to side, like a drunkard, and fell down.

"G," said Benny.

"G, G. Again G. It's extraordinary," said the boys, scratching their heads and again opening their purses.

The game grew more exciting. The players grew hot, staked their money, crushed one another, and dug one another in the ribs to get nearer the table, and called each other peculiar names—"Black Tom-cat! Creased Cap! Split Coat!" and the like. They did not see the teacher standing behind them, in his woollen cap and coat, and carrying his "Tallis" and "Tephilin" under his arm. He was going to the synagogue to say his prayers, and seeing the crowd of excited boys, he drew near to watch the play. This day he does not interfere. It is "Chanukah." We are free for eight days on end, and may play as much as we like. But we must not fight, nor pull one another by the nose. The teacher's wife took her sickly child in her arms, and stood at her husband's shoulder, watching the boys risk their money, and how Benny took on all the bets. Benny was excited, burning, aflame, ablaze. He twirled the top. It spun round and round, wobbled and fell down.

"G all over again. It's a regular pantomime."

Benny showed us his smartness and his quick-wittedness so long, until our pockets were empty. He thrust his hands in his pockets, as if challenging us—"Well, who wants more?"

We all went home. We carried away with us the heartache and the shame of our losses. When we got home, we had to tell lies to account for the loss of the money we had been given in honour of "Chanukah." One boy confessed he had spent his on locust-beans. Another said the money had been stolen out of his pocket the previous night. A third came home crying. He said he had bought himself a pocket-knife. Well, why was he crying? He had lost the knife on his way home.

I told my mother a fine story—a regular "Arabian Nights" tale, and got out of her a second "Chanukah" present of ten "groschens." I ran off with them to Benny, played for five minutes, lost to him, and flew back home, and told my mother another tale. In a word, brains were at work and heads were busy inventing lies. Lies flew about like chaff in the wind. And all our "Chanukah" money went into Benny's pockets, and was lost to us for ever.

One of the boys became so absorbed in the play that he was not satisfied to lose only his "Chanukah" money, but went on gambling through the whole eight days of the festival.

And that boy was no other than myself, "the widow's son."

* * *

You must not ask where the widow's boy got the money to play with. The great gamblers of the world who have lost and won fortunes, estates and inheritances—they will know and understand. Woe is me! May the hour never be known on which the evil spirit of gambling takes hold of one! There is nothing too hard for him. He breaks into houses, gets through iron walls, and does the most terrible thing imaginable. It's a name to conjure with—the spirit of gambling.

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."

Ha! ha! What do you say to that? She does not want charity. A nice story, as I am a Jewish child! Well, what's to be done next? Any one else in my place would surely have torn up the two letters and put the money in his pocket. But I am not that sort. I did a better thing than that. You will hear what. I argued with myself after this fashion: When all is said and done, I got paid by my brother Mottel for the journey. Then what do I want him for now? I went and gave the two letters to my father. I wanted to hear what he would say to them. He would understand the translation better than the teacher, though he is a father, and the teacher is a teacher.

* * *

What happened? After my father had read the two letters and the translation, he took hold of my brother Mottel and demanded an explanation of him. Do not ask me any more.

You want to know the end—what happened to Esther, the teacher's daughter, and to my brother Mottel? What could have happened? Esther got married to a widower. Oh, how she cried. I was at the wedding. Why she cried so much I do not know. It seemed that her heart told her she would not live long with her husband. And so it was. She lived with him only one-half year, and died. I do not know what she died of. I do not know. No one knows. Her father and mother do not know either. It was said she took poison—just went and poisoned herself. "But it's a lie. Enemies have invented that lie," said her mother, the teacher's wife. I heard her myself.

And my brother Mottel? Oh, he married before Esther was even betrothed. He went to live with his father-in-law. But he soon returned, and alone. What had happened? He wanted to divorce his wife. Said my father to him: "You are a man of clay." My mother would not have this. They quarrelled. It was lively. But it was useless. He divorced his wife and married another woman. He now has two children—a boy and a girl. The boy is called Herzl, after Dr. Herzl, and the girl is called Esther. My father wanted her to be named Gittel, and my mother was dying for her to be called Leah, after her mother. There arose a quarrel between my father and mother. They quarrelled a whole day and a whole night. They decided the child should be named Leah-Gittel, after their two mothers. Afterwards my father decided he would not have Leah-Gittel. "What is the sense of it? Why should her mother's name go first?" My brother Mottel came in from the synagogue and said he had named the child Esther. Said my father to him: "Man of clay, where did you get the name Esther from?" Mottel replied: "Have you forgotten it will soon be 'Purim'?" Well, what have you to say now? It's all over. My father never calls Mottel "man of clay" since then. But both of them—my mother and my father—exchanged glances and were silent.

What the silence and the exchange of glances meant I do not know. Perhaps you can tell me?



The Pocket-Knife

Listen, children, and I will tell you a story about a little knife—not an invented story, but a true one, that happened to myself.

I never wished for anything in the world so much as for a pocket-knife. It should be my own, and should lie in my pocket, and I should be able to take it out whenever I wished, to cut whatever I liked. Let my friends know. I had just begun to go to school, under Yossel Dardaki, and I already had a knife, that is, what was almost a knife. I made it myself. I tore a goose-quill out of a feather brush, cut off one end, and flattened out the other. I pretended it was a knife and would cut.

"What sort of a feather is that? What the devil does it mean? Why do you carry a feather about with you?" asked my father—a sickly Jew, with a yellow, wrinkled face. He had a fit of coughing. "Here are feathers for you—playtoys! Tkeh-heh-heh-heh!"

"What do you care if the child plays?" asked my mother of him. She was a short-built woman and wore a silk scarf on her head. "Let my enemies eat out their hearts!"

Later, when I was learning the Bible and the commentaries, I very nearly had a real knife, also of my own making. I found a bit of steel belonging to my mother's crinoline, and I set it very cleverly into a piece of wood. I sharpened the steel beautifully on a stone, and naturally cut all my fingers to pieces.

"See, just see, how he has bled himself, that son of yours," said my father. He took hold of my hands in such a way that the very bones cracked. "He's a fine fellow! Heh-heh-heh!"

"Oh, may the thunder strike me!" cried my mother. She took the little knife from me, and threw it into the fire. She took no notice of my crying. "Now it will come to an end. Woe is me!"

I soon got another knife, but in reality, a little knife. It had a thick, round, wooden handle, like a barrel, and a curved blade which opened as well as closed. You want to know how I came by it? I saved up the money from what I got for my breakfasts, and I bought the knife for seven "groschens" from Solomon, and I owed him three more "groschens."

Oh, how I loved it, how I loved it. I came home from school black and blue, hungry and sleepy, and with my ears well boxed. (You see, I had just started learning the "Gemarra" with Mottel, the "Angel of Death." "If an ox gore a cow" I learnt. And if an ox gores a cow, then I must get beaten.) And the first thing I did was to take out my pocket-knife from under the black cupboard. (It lay there the whole day, because I dared not take it to school with me; and at home no one must know that I have a knife.) I stroked it, I cut a piece of paper with it, split a straw in halves, and then cut up my bread into little cubes which I stuck on the tip of the blade, and afterwards put into my mouth.

Later, before going to bed, I cleaned the knife, and scrubbed it, and polished it. I took the sharpening stone, which I found in the hayloft, spit on it, and in silence began to work, sharpening the little knife, sharpening, sharpening.

My father, his little round cap on his head, sat over a book. He coughed and read, read and coughed. My mother was in the kitchen making bread. I did not cease from sharpening my knife, and sharpening it.

Suddenly my father woke up, as from a deep sleep.

"Who is making that hissing noise? Who is working? What are you doing, you young scamp?"

He stood beside me, and bent over my sharpening-stone. He caught hold of my ear. A fit of coughing choked him.

"Ah! Ah! Ah! Little knives! Heh-heh-heh!" said my father, and he took the knife and the sharpening-stone from me. "Such a scamp! Why the devil can't he take a book into his hand? Tkeh-heh-heh!"

I began to cry. My father improved the situation by a few slaps. My mother ran in from the kitchen, her sleeves turned up, and she began to shout:

"Shah! Shah! What's the matter here? Why do you beat him? God be with you! What have you against the child? Woe is me!"

"Little knives," said my father, ending up with a cough. "A tiny child. Such a devil. Tkeh-heh-heh! Why the devil can't he take a book into his hand? He's already a youth of eight years.... I will give you pocket-knives—you good-for-nothing, you. In the middle of everything, pocket-knives. Thek-heh-heh!"

But what had he against my little knife? How had it sinned in his eyes? Why was he so angry?

I remember that my father was nearly always ailing—always pale and hollow-cheeked, and always angry with the whole world. For the least thing he flared up and would tear me to pieces. It was fortunate my mother defended me. She took me out of his hands.

And that pocket-knife of mine was thrown away somewhere. For eight days on end I looked and looked for it, but could not find it. I mourned deeply for that curved knife—the good knife. How dark and embittered was my soul at school when I remembered that I would come home with a swollen face, with red, torn ears from the hands of Mottel, the "Angel of Death," because an ox gored a cow, and I would have no one to turn to for comfort. I was lonely without the curved knife—lonely as an orphan. No one saw the tears I shed in silence, in my bed, at night, after I had come back from "Cheder." In silence, I cried my eyes out. In the morning I was again at "Cheder," and again I repeated: "If an ox gore a cow," and again I felt the blows of Mottel, the "Angel of Death"; again my father was angry, coughed, and swore at me. I had not a free moment. I did not see a smiling face. There was not a single little smile for me anywhere, not a single one. I had nobody. I was alone—all alone in the whole world.

* * *

A year went by, and perhaps a year and a half. I was beginning to forget the curved knife. It seems I was destined to waste all the years of my childhood because of pocket-knives. A new knife was created—to my misfortune—a brand new knife, a beauty, a splendid one. As I live, it was a fine knife. It had two blades, fine, steel ones, sharp as razors, and a white bone handle, and brass ends, and copper rivets. I tell you, it was a beauty, a real good pocket-knife.

How came to me such a fine knife, that was never meant for such as I? That is a whole story—a sad, but interesting story. Listen to me attentively.

What value in my eyes had the German Jew who lodged with us—the contractor, Herr Hertz Hertzenhertz, when he spoke Yiddish, went about without a cap, had no beard or earlocks, and had his coat-tails cut off? I ask you how I could have helped laughing into his face, when that Jewish-Gentile, or Gentilish-Jew talked to me in Yiddish, but in a curious Yiddish with a lot of A's in it.

"Well, dear boy, which portion of the Law will be read this week?"

"Ha! ha! ha!" I burst out laughing and hid my face in my hands.

"Say, say, my dear child, what portion of the Law will be read this week?"

"Ha! ha! ha! Balak," I burst out with a laugh, and ran away.

But that was only in the beginning, before I knew him. Afterwards, when I knew Herr Hertz Hertzenhertz better (he lived at our house for over a year) I loved him so well that I did not care if he said no prayers, and ate his food without saying the blessings. Nevertheless, I did not understand how he existed, and why the Lord allowed him to remain in the world. Why was he not choked at table? And why did the hair not fall out of his uncovered head? I had heard from my teacher, Mottel, the "Angel of Death," from his own mouth, that this German Jew was only a spirit. That is to say, a Jew was turned into a German; and later on he might turn into a wolf, a cow, a horse, or maybe a duck. A duck?

"Ha! ha! ha! A fine story," thought I. But I was genuinely sorry for the German. Nevertheless, I did not understand why my father, who was a very orthodox Jew, should pay the German Jew so much respect, as also did the other Jews who used to come into our house.

"Peace be unto you, Reb Hertzenhertz! Blessed art thou who comest, Reb Hertz Hertzenhertz!"

I once ventured to ask my father why this was so, but he thrust me to one side and said:

"Go away. It is not your business. Why do you get under our feet? Who the devil wants you? Why the devil can't you take a book into your hands? Heh-heh-heh-heh!"

Again a book? Lord of the world, I also want to see; I also want to hear what people are saying.

I went into the parlour, hid myself in a corner, and heard everything the men talked about. Herr Hertz Hertzenhertz laughed aloud, and smoked thick black cigars that had a very strong smell. Suddenly my father came over to me, and gave me a smack.

"Are you here again, you idler and good-for-nothing? What will become of you, you dunce? What will become of you? Heh-heh-heh-heh!"

It was no use. My father drove me out. I took a book into my hands, but I did not want to read it. What was I to do? I went about the house, from one room to the other, until I came to the nicest room of all—the room in which slept Herr Hertz Hertzenhertz. Ah, how beautiful and bright it was! The lamps were lit, and the mirror shone. On the table was a big, beautiful silver inkstand, and beautiful pens, also little ornaments—men, and animals, and flowers, and bones and stones, and a little knife! Ah, what a beautiful knife! What if I had such a knife? What fine things I would make with it. How happy I should be. Well, I must try it. Is it sharp? Ah, it cuts a hair. It slices up a hair. Oh, oh, oh, what a knife!

One moment I held the knife in my hand. I looked about me on all sides, and slipped it into my pocket. My hands trembled. My heart was beating so loudly that I could hear it saying, "Tick, tick, tick!" I heard some one coming. It was he—Herr Hertz Hertzenhertz. Ah, what was I to do? The knife might remain in my pocket. I could put it back later on. Meanwhile, I must get out of the room, run away, away, far.

I could eat no supper that night. My mother felt my head. My father threw angry glances at me, and told me to go to bed. Sleep? Could I close my eyes? I was like dead. What was I to do with the little knife? How was I going to put it back again?

* * *

"Come over here, my little ornament," said my father to me next day. "Did you see the little pocket-knife anywhere?"

Of course I was very much frightened. It seemed to me that he knew—that everybody knew. I was almost, almost crying out: "The pocket-knife? Here it is." But something came into my throat, and would not let me utter a sound for a minute or so. In a shaking voice I replied:

"Where? What pocket-knife?"

"Where? What knife?" my father mocked at me. "What knife? The golden knife. Our guest's knife, you good-for-nothing, you! You dunce, you! Tkeh-heh-heh!"

"What do you want of the child?" put in my mother. "The child knows nothing of anything, and he worries him about the knife, the knife."

"The knife—the knife! How can he not know about it?" cried my father angrily. "All the morning he hears me shouting—The knife! The knife! The knife! The house is turned upside down for the knife, and he asks 'Where? What knife?' Go away. Go and wash yourself, you good-for-nothing, you. You dunce, dunce! Tkeh-heh-heh!"

I thank Thee, Lord of the Universe, that they did not search me. But what was I to do next? The knife had to be hidden somewhere, in a safe place. Where was I to hide it? Ah! In the attic. I took the knife quickly from my pocket, and stuck it into my top-boot. I ate, and I did not know what I was eating. I was choking.

"Why are you in such a hurry? What the devil ...?" asked my father.

"I am hurrying off to school," I answered, and grew red as fire.

"A scholar, all of a sudden. What do you say to such a saint?" he muttered, and glared at me. I barely managed to finish my breakfast, and say grace.

"Well, why are you not off to 'Cheder,' my saint?" asked my father.

"Why do you hunt him so?" asked my mother. "Let the child sit a minute."

I was in the attic. Deep, deep in a hole lay the beautiful knife. It lay there in silence.

"What are you doing in the attic?" called out my father. "You good-for-nothing! You street-boy! Tkeh-heh-heh-heh!"

"I am looking for something," I answered. I nearly fell down with fright.

"Something? What is the something? What sort of a thing is that something?"

"A—a bo—ok. An—an old 'Ge—gemar—ra.'"

"What? A 'Gemarra'? In the attic? Ah, you scamp you! Come down at once. Come down. You'll get it from me. You street-boy! You dog-beater! You rascal! Tkeh-heh-heh-heh!"

I was not so much afraid of my father's anger as that the pocket-knife might be found. Who could tell? Perhaps some one would go up to the attic to hang out clothes to dry, or to paint the rafters? The knife must be taken down from there, and hidden in a better place. I went about in fear and trembling. Every glance at my father told me that he knew, and that now, now he was going to talk to me of the guest's knife. I had a place for it—a grand place. I would bury it in the ground, in a hole near the wall. I would put some straw on the spot to mark it. The moment I came from "Cheder" I ran out into the yard. I took the knife carefully from my pocket, but had no time to look at it, when my father called out:

"Where are you at all? Why don't you go and say your prayers? You swine-herd you! You are a water-carrier! Tkeh-heh-heh!"

But whatever my father said to me, and as much as the teacher beat me, it was all rubbish to me when I came home, and had the pleasure of seeing my one and only dear friend—my little knife. The pleasure was, alas! mixed with pain, and embittered by fear—by great fear.

* * *

It is the summer time. The sun is setting. The air grows somewhat cooler. The grass emits a sweet odour. The frogs croak, and the thick clouds fly by, without rain, across the moon. They wish to swallow her up. The silvery white moon hides herself every minute, and shows herself again. It seemed to me that she was flying and flying, but was still on the same spot. My father sat down on the grass, in a long mantle. He had one hand in the bosom of his coat, and with the other he smoothed down the grass. He looked up at the star-spangled sky, and coughed and coughed. His face was like death, silvery white. He was sitting on the exact spot where the little knife was hidden. He knew nothing of what was in the earth under him. Ah, if he only knew! What, for instance, would he say, and what would happen to me?

"Aha!" thought I within myself, "you threw away my knife with the curved blade, and now I have a nicer and a better one. You are sitting on it, and you know nothing. Oh, father, father!"

"Why do you stare at me like a tom-cat?" asked my father. "Why do you sit with folded arms like a self-satisfied old man? Can you not find something to do? Have you said the night prayer? May the devil not take you, scamp! May an evil end not come upon you! Tkeh-heh-heh!"

When he says may the devil not take you, and may an evil end not come upon you, then he is not angry. On the contrary, it is a sign that he is in a good humour. And, surely, how could one help being in a good humour on such a wonderfully beautiful night, when every one is drawn out of doors into the street, under the soft, fresh, brilliant sky? Every one is now out of doors—my father, my mother, and the younger children who are looking for little stones and playing in the sand. Herr Hertz Hertzenhertz was going about in the yard, without a hat, smoking a cigar, and singing a German song. He looked at me, and laughed. Probably he was laughing because my father was driving me away. But I laughed at them all. Soon they would be going to bed, and I would go out into the yard (I slept in the open, before the door, because of the great heat), and I would rejoice in, and play with my knife.

The house is asleep. It is silent around and about. Cautiously I get up; I am on all fours, like a cat; and I steal out into the yard. The night is silent. The air is fresh and pure. Slowly I creep over to the spot where the little knife lies buried. I take it out carefully, and look at it by the light of the moon. It shines and glitters, like guinea-gold, like a diamond. I lift up my eyes, and I see that the moon is looking straight down on my knife. Why is she looking at it so? I turn round. She looks after me. Maybe she knows whose knife it is, and where I got it? Got it? Stole it!

For the first time since the knife came into my hands has this terrible word entered my thoughts. Stolen? Then I am, in short, a thief, a common thief? In the Holy Law, in the Ten Commandments, are written, in big letters: "THOU SHALT NOT STEAL."

Thou shalt not steal. And I have stolen. What will they do to me in hell for that? Woe is me! They will cut off my hand—the hand that stole. They will whip me with iron rods. They will roast and burn me in a hot oven. I will glow for ever and ever. The knife must be given back. The knife must be put back in its place. One must not hold a stolen knife. Tomorrow I will put it back.

That was what I decided. And I put the knife into my bosom. I imagined it was burning, scorching me. No, it must be hidden again, buried in the earth till tomorrow. The moon still looked down on me. What was she looking at? The moon saw. She was a witness.

I crept back to the house, to my sleeping-place. I lay down again, but could not sleep. I tossed about from side to side, but could not fall asleep. It was already day when I dozed off. I dreamt of a moon, I dreamt of iron rods, and I dreamt of little knives. I got up very early, said my prayers with pleasure, with delight, ate my breakfast while standing on one foot, and marched off to "Cheder."

"Why are you in such a hurry for 'Cheder'?" cried my father to me. "What is driving you? You will not lose your knowledge if you go a little later. You will have time enough for mischief. You scamp! You epicurean! You heathen! Tkeh-heh-heh-heh!"

* * *

"Why so late? Just look at this." The teacher stopped me, and pointed with his finger at my comrade, Berrel the red one, who was standing in the corner with his head down.

"Do you see, bandit? You must know that from this day his name is not Berrel the red one, as he was called. He is now called a fine name. His name is now Berrel the thief. Shout it out, children. Berrel the thief! Berrel the thief!"

The teacher drew out the words, and put a little tune into them. The pupils repeated them after him, like a chorus.

"Berrel the thief—Berrel the thief!"

I was petrified. A cold wave passed over my body. I did not know what it all meant.

"Why are you silent, you heathen, you?" cried the teacher, and gave me an unexpected smack in the face. "Why are you silent, you heathen? Don't you hear the others singing? Join in with them, and help them. Berrel the thief—Berrel the thief!"

My limbs trembled. My teeth rattled. But, I helped the others to shout aloud "Berrel the thief! Berrel the thief!"

"Louder, heathen," prompted the teacher. "In a stronger voice—stronger."

And I, along with the rest of the choir, sang out in a variety of voices, "Berrel the thief—Berrel the thief!"

"Sh—sh—sh—a—a—ah!" cried the teacher, banging the table with his open hand. "Hush! Now we will betake ourselves to pronouncing judgment." He spoke in a sing-song voice.

"Ah, well, Berrel thief, come over here, my child. Quicker, a little quicker. Tell me, my boy, what your name is." This also was said in a sing-song.

"Berrel."

"What else?"

"Berrel—Berrel the thief."

"That's right, my dear child. Now you are a good boy. May your strength increase, and may you grow stronger in every limb!" (Still in the same sing-song.) "Take off your clothes. That's right. But can't you do it quicker? I beg of you, be quick about it. That's right, little Berrel, my child."

Berrel stood before us as naked as when he was born. Not a drop of blood showed in his body. He did not move a limb. His eyes were lowered. He was as dead as a corpse.

The teacher called out one of the older scholars, still speaking in the same sing-song voice:

"Well, now, Hirschalle, come out from behind the table, over here to me. Quicker. Just so. And now tell us the story from beginning to end—how our Berrel became a thief. Listen, boys, pay attention."

And Hirschalle began to tell the story. Berrel had got the little collecting box of "Reb" Mayer the "Wonder-worker," into which his mother threw a "kopek," sometimes two, every Friday, before lighting the Sabbath candles. Berrel had fixed his eyes on that box, on which there hung a little lock. By means of a straw gummed at the end, he had managed to extract the "kopeks" from the box, one by one. His mother, Slatte, the hoarse one, suspecting something wrong, opened the box, and found in it one of the straws tipped with gum. She beat her son Berrel. And after the whipping she had prevailed on the teacher to give him, he confessed that for a whole year—a round year, he had been extracting the "kopeks," one by one, and that, every Sunday, he had bought himself two little cakes, some locust beans, and—and so forth, and so forth.

"Now, boys, pronounce judgment on him. You know how to do it. This is not the first time. Let each give his verdict, and say what must be done to a boy who steals 'kopeks' from a charity-box, by means of a straw."

The teacher put his head to one side. He closed his eyes, and turned his right ear to Hirschalle. Hirschalle answered at the top of his voice:

"A thief who steals 'kopeks' from a charity-box should be flogged until the blood spurts from him."

"Moshalle, what is to be done to a thief who steals 'kopeks' from a charity-box?"

"A thief," replied Moshalle, in a wailing voice, "a thief who steals 'kopeks' from a charity-box should be stretched out. Two boys should be put on his head, two on his feet, and two should flog him with pickled rods."

"Topalle Tutteratu, what is to be done to a thief who steals 'kopeks' from a charity-box?"

Kopalle Kuckaraku, a boy who could not pronounce the letters K and G, wiped his face, and gave his verdict in a squeaking voice.

"A boy who steals 'topets' from the charity-bots should be punished lite this. Every boy should do over to him, and shout into his face, three times, thief, thief, thief."

The whole school laughed. The master put his thumb on his wind-pipe, like a cantor, and called out to me, as if I were a bridegroom being called up, at the synagogue, to read the portion of the Law for the week:

"Tell me, now, my dear little boy, what would you say should be done to a thief who steals 'kopeks' from a charity-box."

I tried to reply, but my tongue would not obey me. I shivered as with ague. Something was in my throat, choking me. A cold sweat broke out all over my body. There was a whistling in my ears. I saw before me, not the teacher, nor the naked Berrel the thief, nor my comrades. I saw before me only knives—pocket-knives without an end, white, open knives that had many blades. And there, beside the door, hung the moon. She looked at me, and smiled, like a human being. My head was going round. The whole room—the table and the books, the boys and the moon that hung beside the door, and the little knives—all were whirling round. I felt as if my two feet were chopped off. Another moment, and I might have fallen down, but I controlled myself with all my strength, and I did not fall.

In the evening, I came home, and felt that my face was burning. My cheeks were on fire, and in my ears was a hissing noise. I heard some one speaking to me, but what they said I do not know. My father was saying something, and seemed to be angry. He wanted to beat me. My mother intervened. She spread out her apron, as a clucking hen spreads out her wing to defend her chickens from injury. I heard nothing, and did not want to hear. I only wanted the darkness to fall sooner, so that I might make an end of the little knife. What was I to do with it? Confess everything, and give it up? Then I would suffer the same punishment as Berrel. Throw it carelessly somewhere? But I may be caught? Throw it away, and no more, so long as I am rid of it? Where was I to throw it in order that it might not be found by anybody? On the roof? The noise would be heard. In the garden? It might be found. Ah, I know! I have a plan, I'll throw it into the water. A good plan, as I live. I'll throw it into the well that is in our own yard. This plan pleased me so much that I did not wish to dwell on it longer. I took up the knife, and ran off straight to the well. It seemed to me that I was carrying in my hand not a knife but something repulsive—a filthy little creature of which I must rid myself at once. But, still I was sorry. It was such a fine little knife. For a moment, I stood thinking, and it seemed to me that I was holding in my hand a living thing. My heart ached for it. Surely, surely, it has cost me so much heartache. It is a pity for the living. I summoned all my courage, and let it out suddenly from my fingers. Plash! The water bubbled up for a moment. Nothing more was heard, and my knife was gone. I stood a moment at the well and listened. I heard nothing. Thank God, I was rid of it. My heart was faint, and full of longing. Surely, it was a fine knife—such a knife!

* * *

I went back to bed, and saw that the moon was still looking down at me. And it seemed to me she had seen everything I had done. From the distance a voice seemed to be saying to me: "But, you are a thief all the same. Catch him, beat him. He is a thief, a thief."

I stole back into the house, and into my own bed.

I dreamt that I ran, swept through the air. I flew with my little knife in my hand. And the moon looked at me and said:

"Catch him, beat him. He is a thief—a thief."

* * *

A long, long sleep, and a heavy, a very heavy dream. A fire burnt within me. My head was buzzing. Everything I saw was red as blood. Burning rods of fire cut into my flesh. I was swimming in blood. Around me wriggled snakes and serpents. They had their mouths open, ready to swallow me. Right into my ears some one was blowing a trumpet. And, some one was standing over me, and shouting, keeping time with the trumpet: "Whip him, whip him, whip him. He is a thie—ef." And I myself shouted: "Oh, oh, take the moon away from me. Give her up the little knife. What have you against poor Berrel? He is not guilty. It is I who am a thief—a thief."

Beyond that, I remember nothing.

* * *

I opened one eye, then the other. Where was I? On a bed, I think. Ah, is that you, mother, mother? She does not hear me. Mother, mother, mo—o—other! What is this? I imagine I am shouting aloud. Shah! I listen. She is weeping silently. I also see my father, with his yellow, sickly face. He is sitting near me, an open book in his hand. He reads, and sighs, and coughs and groans. It seems that I am dead already. Dead?... All at once, I feel that it is growing brighter before my eyes. Everything is growing lighter, too. My head and my limbs are lighter. There is a ringing in my ear, and in my other ear. Tschinna! I sneezed. Akhstchu!

"Good health! May your days be lengthened! May your years be prolonged! It is a good sign. Blessed art Thou, O Lord!"

"Sneezed in reality? Blessed be the Most High!"

"Let us call at once Mintze the butcher's wife. She knows how to avert the evil eye."

"The doctor ought to be called—the doctor."

"The doctor? What for? That is nonsense. The Most High is the best doctor. Blessed be the Lord, and praised be His Name!"

"Go asunder, people. Separate a bit. It is terribly hot. In the name of God, go away."

"Ah, yes. I told you that you have to cover him with wax. Well, who is right?"

"Praise be the Lord, and blessed be His Holy Name! Ah, God! God! Blessed be the Lord! and praised be His Holy Name!"

They fluttered about me. They looked at me. Each one came and felt my head. They prayed over me, and buzzed around me. They licked my forehead, and spat out, by way of a charm. They poured hot soup down my throat, and filled my mouth with spoonfuls of preserves. Every one flew around me. They cared for me as if I were the apple of their eye. They fed me with broths and tiny chickens, as if I were an infant. They did not leave me alone. My mother sat by me always, and told me over and over again the whole story of how they had lifted me up from the ground, almost dead, and how I had been lying for two weeks on end, burning like a fire, croaking like a frog, and muttering something about whippings and little knives. They already imagined I was dead, when suddenly I sneezed seven times. I had practically come to life again.

"Now we see what a great God we have, blessed be He, and praised be His Name!" That was how my mother ended up, the tears springing to her eyes. "Now we can see that when we call to Him He listens to our sinful requests and our guilty tears. We shed a lot, a lot of tears, your father and I, until the Lord had pity on us.... We nearly, nearly lost our child through our sinfulness. May we suffer in your stead! And through what? Through a boy who was a thief, a certain Berrel whom the teacher flogged at 'Cheder,' almost until he bled. When you came home from 'Cheder' you were more dead than alive. May your mother suffer instead of you! The teacher is a tyrant, a murderer. The Lord will punish him for it—the Lord of the Universe. No, my child, if the Lord lets us live, when you get well, we will send you to another teacher, not to such a tyrant as is the 'Angel of Death,'—may his name be blotted out for ever!"

These words made a terrible impression on me. I threw my arms around my mother, and kissed her.

"Dear, dear mother."

And my father came over to me softly. He put his cold, white hand on my forehead, and said to me kindly, without a trace of anger:

"Oh, how you frightened us, you heathen you! Tkeh-heh-heh-heh!"

Also the Jewish German, or the German Jew, Herr Hertz Hertzenhertz, his cigar between his teeth, bent down and touched my cheek, with his clean-shaven chin. He said to me in German:

"Good! Good! Be well—be well!"

* * *

A few weeks after I got out of bed, my father said to me:

"Well, my son, now go to 'Cheder,' and never think of little knives again, or other such nonsense. It is time you began to be a bit of a man. If it please God, you will be 'Bar-Mitzvah' in three years—may you live to a hundred and twenty. Tkeh-heh-heh!"

With such sweet words did my father send me off to "Cheder," to my new teacher, "Reb" Chayim Kotter. It was the first time that I had heard such good kind words from my father. And I forgot, in a moment, all his harshness, and all his abuse, and all his blows. It was as if they had never existed in the world. If I were not ashamed, I would have thrown my arms about his neck, and kissed him. But how can one kiss a father? Ha! ha! ha!

My mother gave me a whole apple and three "groschens" to take to "Cheder," and the German gave me a few "kopeks." He pinched my cheek, and said in his language:

"Best boy, good, good!"

I took my "Gemarra" under my arm, kissed the "Mezuzah," and went off to "Cheder" like one newly born, with a clean heart, and fresh, pious thoughts. The sun looked down, and greeted me with its warm rays. The little breeze stole in under one of my earlocks. The birds twittered—Tif—tif—tif—tif! I was lifted up. I was borne on the breeze. I wanted to run, jump, dance. Oh, how good it is—how sweet to be alive and to be honest, when one is not a thief and not a liar.

I pressed my "Gemarra" tightly to my breast, and still tighter. I ran to "Cheder" with pleasure, with joy. And I swore by my "Gemarra" that I would never, never touch what belonged to another—never, never steal, and never, never deny anything again. I would always be honest, for ever and ever honest.



On the Fiddle

Children, I will now play for you a little tune on the fiddle. I imagine there is nothing better and finer in the world than to be able to play on the fiddle. What? Perhaps it is not so? I don't know how it is with you. But I know that since I first reached the age of understanding, my heart longed for a fiddle. I loved as my life any musician whatever—no matter what instrument he played. If there was a wedding anywhere in the town, I was the first to run forward and welcome the musicians. I loved to steal over to the bass, and draw my fingers across one of the strings—Boom! And I flew away. Boom! And I flew away. For this same "boom" I once got it hot from Berel Bass. Berel Bass—a cross Jew with a flattened out nose, and a sharp glance—pretended not to see me stealing over to the bass. And when I stretched out my hand to the thick string, he caught hold of me by the ear and dragged me, respectfully, to the door:

"Here, scamp, kiss the 'Mezuzah.'"

But this was not of much consequence to me. It did not make me go a single step from the musicians. I loved them all, from Sheika the little fiddler with his beautiful black beard and his thin white hands, to Getza the drummer with his beautiful hump, and, if you will forgive me for mentioning it, the big bald patches behind his ears. Not once, but many times did I lie hidden under a bench, listening to the musicians playing, though I was frequently found and sent home. And from there, from under the bench, I could see how Sheika's thin little fingers danced about over the strings; and I listened to the sweet sounds which he drew so cleverly out of the little fiddle.

Afterwards I used to go about in a state of great inward excitement for many days on end. And Sheika and his little fiddle stood before my eyes always. At night I saw him in my dreams; and in the daytime I saw him in reality; and he never left my imagination. When no one was looking I used to imagine that I was Sheika, the little fiddler. I used to curve my left arm and move my fingers, and draw out my right hand, as if I were drawing the bow across the strings. At the same time I threw my head to one side, closing my eyes a little—just as Sheika did, not a hair different.

My "Rebbe," Nota-Leib, once caught me doing this. It happened in the middle of a lesson. I was moving my arms about, throwing my head to one side, and blinking my eyes, and he gave me a sound box on the ears.

"What a scamp can do! We are teaching him his lessons, and he makes faces and catches flies!"

* * *

I promised myself that, even if the world turned upside down, I must have a little fiddle, let it cost me what it would. But what was I to make a fiddle out of? Of cedar wood, of course. But it's easy to talk of cedar wood. How was I to come by it when, as everybody knows, the cedar tree grows only in Palestine? But what does the Lord do for me? He goes and puts a certain thought in my head. In our house there was an old sofa. This sofa was left us, as a legacy, by our grandfather "Reb" Anshel. And my two uncles fought over this sofa with my father—peace be unto him! My uncle Benny argued that since he was my grandfather's oldest son, the sofa belonged to him; and my uncle Sender argued that he was the youngest son, and that the sofa belonged to him. And my father—peace be unto him!—argued that although he was no more than a son-in-law to my grandfather, and had no personal claim on the sofa, still, since his wife, my mother, that is, was the only daughter of "Reb" Anshel, the sofa belonged, by right, to her. But all this happened long ago. And as the sofa has remained in our house, this was a proof that it was our sofa. And our two aunts interfered, my aunt Etka, and my aunt Zlatka. They began to invent scandals and to carry tales from one house to another. It was sofa and sofa, and nothing else but sofa! The town rocked, all because of the sofa. However, to make a long story short, the sofa remained our sofa.

This same sofa was an ordinary wooden sofa covered with a thin veneer. This veneer had come unloosened in many places and was split up. It had now a number of small mounds. And the upper layer of the veneer which had come unloosened was of the real cedar wood—the wood of which fiddles are made. At least, that is what I was told at school. The sofa had one fault, and this fault was, in reality, a good quality. For instance, when one sat on it one could not get up off it again because it stood a little on the slant. One side was higher than the other, and in the middle there was a hole. And the good thing about our sofa was that no one wanted to sit on it, and it was put away in a corner, to one side, in compulsory retirement.

It was on this sofa that I had cast my eyes, to make a fiddle out of the cedar wood veneer. A bow I had already provided myself with, long ago. I had a comrade, Shimalle Yudel, the car-owner's son. He promised me a few hairs from the tail of his father's horse. And resin to smear the bow with I had myself. I hated to depend on miracles. I got the resin from another friend of mine, Mayer-Lippa, Sarah's son, for a bit of steel from my mother's old crinoline which had been knocking about in the attic. Out of this piece of steel, Mayer Lippa afterwards made himself a little knife. It is true when I saw the knife I wanted him to change back again with me. But he would not have it. He began to shout:

"A clever fellow that! What do you say to him! I worked hard for three whole nights. I sharpened and sharpened and cut all my fingers sharpening, and now he comes and wants me to change back again with him!"

"Just look at him!" I cried. "Well then, it won't be! A great bargain for you—a little bit of steel! Isn't there enough steel knocking about in our attic? There will be enough for our children, and our children's children even."

Anyway, I had everything that was necessary. And there only remained one thing for me to do—to scale off the cedar wood from the sofa. For this work I selected a very good time, when my mother was in the shop, and my father had gone to lie down and have a nap after dinner. I hid myself in a corner and, with a big nail, I betook myself to my work in good earnest. My father heard, in his sleep, how some one was scraping something. At first he thought there were mice in the house, and he began to make a noise from his bedroom to drive them off—"Kush! Kush!" I was like dead.... My father turned over on the other side and when I heard him snoring again, I went back to my work. Suddenly I looked about me. My father was standing and staring at me with curious eyes. It appeared that he could not, on any account, understand what was going on—what I was doing. Then, when he saw the spoiled and torn sofa, he realized what I had done. He pulled me out of the corner by the ear and beat me so much that I fainted away and had to be revived. I actually had to have cold water thrown over me to bring me to life again.

"The Lord be with you! What have you done to the child?" my mother wailed, the tears starting to her eyes.

"Your beautiful son! He will drive me into my grave, while I am still living," said my father, who was white as chalk. He put his hand to his heart and was attacked by a fit of coughing which lasted several minutes.

"Why should you eat your heart out like this?" my mother asked him. "As it is you are a sickly man. Just look at the face you've got. May my enemies have as healthy a year!"

* * *

My desire to play the fiddle grew with me. The older I grew, the stronger became my desire. And, as if out of spite, I was destined to hear music every day of the week. Right in the middle of the road, halfway between my home and the school, stood a little house covered with earth. And from that house came forth various sweet sounds. But most often than all the playing of a fiddle could be heard. In that house there lived a musician whose name was Naphtali "Bezborodka,"—a Jew who wore a short jacket, curled-up earlocks, and a starched collar. He had a fine-sized nose. It looked as if it had been stuck on his face. He had thick lips and black teeth. His face was pock-pitted, and had not on it even signs of a beard. That is why he was called "Bezborodka," the Beardless One. He had a wife who was like a machine. The people called her "Mother Eve." Of children he had about a dozen and a half. They were ragged, half-naked, and bare-footed. And each child, from the biggest to the smallest, played on a musical instrument. One played the fiddle, another the 'cello, another the double-bass, another the trumpet, another the "Ballalaika," another the drum, and another the cymbals. And amongst them there were some who could whistle the longest melody with their lips, or between their teeth. Others could play tunes on little glasses, or little pots, or bits of wood. And some made music with their faces. They were demons, evil spirits—nothing else.