XIV
THE CANDY-MAKER’S AUTOBIOGRAPHY
“MAN, Know Thyself.
“I am not writing this because I ever expect any man to read it; if I were not so sure of that, I would not write so frankly as I do. Even as it is, I am not sure that I am going to tell everything about myself, for to be frank with one’s self is very hard.
“I was born in a small village in Northern Bohemia. My father was a shoemaker, who had travelled a great deal as a journeyman. He spoke a broken German and, of course, the Czechish. He always smelled of alcohol, tobacco and leather. When he was sober he was gloomy, and if any one made a noise or displeased him in the least, he would grow angry and throw a boot or a last at him. When he was drunk he was jovial, sang lustily and was very affectionate. At such times my mother submitted to his embraces, but as soon as I was strong enough to run away from him, I ran; for his vile smell offended me. I think he loved me—in some such fashion as a man loves a dog, and it offended him because I would not be fondled by him.
“There is no such thing as natural affection; I certainly did not love my father. My mother I pitied. She was always bearing children—children she did not want—and not one of us ever thanked her for bringing him into the world.
“What men call love is lust,—what women call love is the natural desire for offspring.
“I was nine years of age when I got drunk. My father ordered me to drink and I drank as much as he wanted me to. When I got sober I hated my father for I knew he had wronged my nature; but I craved drink and I pretended to love him. He taught me that the Germans were the enemies of the Czechs, and that I must hate them. He gave me a glass of beer for throwing a stone into a German house. He told me that the Jews killed our God and that they were cursed by God for doing it. He gave me a glass of beer for taking pig’s blood and marking crosses on the doors of the Jews.
“It is a poor God who lets Himself be crucified and a poorer God who curses His children.
“At twelve I was apprenticed to a baker. For a whole year I carried the baker’s baby and did the drudgery of the household. The second year I carried rolls and bread from house to house and to the inns. I cheated the baker whenever I could. He gave me four kreutzers on Sunday for spending money. I needed more and got it. I was as honest as he.
“This is the refuge of criminals and while it is not a safe one as far as the law is concerned, it is a good salve for one’s conscience. At sixteen I went on the road, ostensibly looking for work, but I was looking at life. I discovered that the Germans, whom my father had told me to hate, had been taught by their fathers to hate me. Patriotism is an artificial virtue.
“At Bamberg I was thrown into jail, and a common woman was arrested with me. When I came out of jail she was waiting for me. She gave me a pocketbook with five marks in it. She had stolen it—for me. I did not take it and I did not go with her. She wept and tore her hair; she said she loved me.
“A harlot who sells herself for money to many men is no worse than the woman who sells herself to one man.
“I did not go with her because I could not match her devotion. After all, there is something in love; it sobered me.
“I went to work with a Jewish baker. He did not get drunk and he did not beat his wife; when he looked at her his face beamed and he was kind to her always. She was sick and he carried her to her bed as if she were a baby—her body was shrivelled. It wasn’t lust he felt, perhaps it was pity. He told me she had been sick since their only child was born. Miriam was sixteen years of age and pity does not last sixteen years. It must have been something better than pity.
“Miriam was growing into womanhood. It seemed that every day I saw her she grew lovelier. Yet I never thought about her body; it was her mind. She taught me how to read German—she opened the doors of a new world to me. We read many good books together. She told me to go to the theatre. I saw Romeo and Juliet.
“It was not Miriam’s mind after all—it was something else. I know it was not her body—I desired something more. I loved her.
“I spoke to her father—he told me that I could not marry her for I was a Christian. I went to the rabbi. I wanted to be a Jew so I could marry her.
“It is hard to get into Judaism. I wonder whether it is hard to get out?
“A little drop of water makes a man a Christian no matter what he was. The Jews want blood.
“I was willing to give it but the baker journeymen heard about it and I was called before the guild. They drowned my love with beer. They awakened the beast within me. I became like my father—‘Bestia Sum.’
“In the year 1865 war broke out and I, as an Austrian subject, was sent across the border. I was drafted into the army and taught how to kill the Prussians. That was all I seemed good for, and I did it as fast as the Prussians would let me. They had better guns and were sober; they had generals, we had the Hapsburghs.
“The Hapsburghs said, ‘Let them come in,’ and the generals came. Then the Hapsburghs said: ‘We’ll drive them out,’ but they didn’t. This was our last stand and we capitulated. I have stayed here ever since.
“I have capitulated to the Germans, to force and to reason. I shall never capitulate to the priest and to the church.”
XV
THE AMERICANS
THE town was looking up indeed; progress, that ceaseless traveller, who seems to skip continents and countries while appearing in remote towns or villages, came to us out of the same land from which had come coal-oil lamps, sewing-machines and the three-quarters of a man.
One day there alighted from the omnibus a man and his family, consisting of his wife, two sons and one daughter. When the man had shaken his cramped body into shape, he began to abuse the driver of the omnibus, the town and the country; while with a mighty oath composed of the hottest words taken from various tongues, he declared that he would send the omnibus to the scrap heap, the owner of that wretched vehicle to the poorhouse, and the driver to jail. Thinking over it now in my maturer years, I realize that they richly deserved his anathemas, although at that time, in common with our townsfolk, I thought the man presumptuous in criticizing this ark of ours, with its leather-covered body and the mud-bespattered lettering which declared in three languages that it was an omnibus and that it connected our town with the far-away railroad, which it reached in time to catch the mixed train for Vienna. It did not set forth that it rarely arrived at Hodowin in time, which meant a wearisome wait of many hours in an ill-smelling waiting-room; nor did it tell of the terrors of the journey, of the driver who made it uncomfortable for the passengers by asking them to alight and push, unless he got a generous “Trinkgeld,” and it certainly never told or could tell of the rapacious owner, who exercised all his powers as a monopolist over a defenseless public.
The strangers were expensively attired. From the man’s shirt bosom flashed the first diamond I ever remembered seeing, and the woman had similar glittering stones in her ears. I was at once attracted by the boys, who, contrary to custom, jumped through the window of the omnibus to the ground without the aid of the foot-rest. This seemed to me a dangerous performance; but when the girl followed her brothers in the same fashion, all the onlookers including myself were shocked. My hungry brain or soul or whatever a boy may call the self, scented in these newcomers unusual mortals, and I was not disappointed.
The family came from an American city not many hundreds of miles from where I am now writing. The father had left there, ostensibly on account of the rigours of the climate, but when visiting the town myself in later years, I found that his leaving was not a matter of climate but of police record. The family planned to remain until the father’s health was restored; which meant until a new and less rigorous administration should come into power where his misdeeds had been perpetrated. Originally he had been in the whiskey distilling business, which in Hungary, by its nature, encouraged roving and lawlessness. Both these qualities carried him to the United States, where evidently he had prospered but not reformed, and he was now back from where he started. The children had English names: Henry, Arthur and Maud. The girl’s name sounded very strange when pronounced by those of us who did not know anything of the mysteries of the English language.
The boys were soon the terror of the town and the surrounding villages. They belied their Jewish ancestry both in their looks and their behaviour and broke through all barriers of race and class, proving a leavening influence for good or ill, according to the views held, to the boyhood of their generation.
To run races or to play ball were unknown pleasures, especially to the sedate Jewish lads. To play Indian, plan semi-serious hold-ups, to go about with bows and arrows and a self-conscious swagger—these were virtues or vices so new that the whole region seemed to be turned topsyturvy, and everybody but myself heaved a sigh of relief when the strangers were gone. From these boys I learned a few English phrases, the first being contained in the classic lines of “Yankee Doodle.” Many a puzzling thought I gave to those euphonious words “doodle” and “macaroni,” whose meaning could not be translated to me, even by the boys, who could repeat the whole song forward and backward. Above all I bless their memory for having brought into my life Cooper’s “Leatherstocking Tales,” which they owned in a large, illustrated, German edition. That ozone from free airs stirred my whole system and seemed to purify me of all inborn fears and littleness. I felt the glow of camp-fires, the joy of the chase, the hardships of adventure, the fierceness of battles and battle-cries. I cast off, as if by magic, the burdens imposed upon me by race and faith, and became a pioneer in an untracked wilderness; I drew the first plow-share over my prairie farm and defended my blockhouse against the redskins; yes, even the fear of guns was taken from me, for I went with those American boys (carrying a borrowed gun, which was against the law) and killed a cat. With steady hand, I pulled the trigger while one of the lads held the ancient weapon. Then we proceeded to scalp the animal and did it, I suppose, Indian fashion. The height of surprises to our Jewish community came, when the younger of the boys climbed a May-pole without apparent effort, after the Gentile lads had failed. How I trembled and triumphed for him, as the tree swayed with him at its graceful top; how proud I felt as he waved the ribbon he had taken from the goal, and when he reached earth again he seemed to have redeemed me from the reproach against my race; for the peasants said: “See what this Jewish boy did!” “How skillful he is and how brave!” I basked for a long time in the radiance of his triumph.
The father’s influence on the adult male population was not quite as revolutionary or as wholesome. He had many tales to tell of far-away America, and in increasing numbers the younger men would gather with him at the inn, listening to his stories while he drew them into a friendly game of cards. To this day, in a small and reckless circle, the game of poker survives, although I suppose it is changed by its environment. By his convivial ways he also attracted the sporting element among the young Magyars who, like most mortals, lose their race prejudice in social excesses. If there was anything in the calendar of vices which was new and promised new sensations, the American visitor taught it to them, and they were apt pupils. No doubt it was this good fellowship which introduced him into our national politics. As he made his début in the first election for Parliament which I witnessed, and no doubt the first in which American methods played an important part, it is worth describing.
At that time there were two parties in Hungary; the Government party and the Opposition. It was a foregone conclusion that the Government candidate would be elected: First, because the Government wanted him elected; second, because it completely controlled the machinery of the election. I doubt that any of the voters knew the difference between their parties, or if they cared to know. The Government prepared for a peaceful election. Tri-coloured flags, which pledged the peasants who had a right to franchise, were fastened to the straw-thatched roofs of the whole district and apparently nothing remained but the formality of counting the votes on election day. Suddenly there appeared, in ever-increasing numbers, the flags of the Opposition. Young stump speakers climbed upon fences sheltering images of the saints, or even upon their shoulders, and harangued the crowd. The inns were full of voters who drank palenka, which flowed as freely as water. Torchlight processions were formed and I owe my first sight of fireworks to this same exciting season, the stirring events of which linger so plainly in my memory. At last the Government party awoke to the fact that it would not have the usual “walk-away,” and when election day came, soldiers, both cavalry and infantry, marched into town. It was a fairly safe assurance that the election would go the right way, no matter which way the votes went. The town square was divided into halves by the infantry, and the whole surrounded by Hungarian Hussars whose gay uniforms dazzled the eyes.
In larger and larger numbers the peasants arrived, coming in groups, carrying their party banners. Long before they reached the town they had been befuddled by liquor to the degree that they were not afraid of infantry or cavalry, and boldly declaring their party, entered the left half of the square. The Government side, it is true, had in it the gentle folk;—well-to-do merchants and landowners, and although their votes counted for more than the peasants’, their numbers were few. The Opposition’s side of the square was fairly bulging from its ever-increasing human mass, so that the soldiers had a hard time to keep it within bounds. Each voter had to pass through the voting booth and, much to the chagrin of the Government party, the Opposition had appointed watchers, who surrounded the ballot box. When night came, the Opposition candidate was declared elected in spite of various subterfuges of the Government party. It was a hideous and sleepless night in the town, for nearly everybody was drunk, and the police took especial delight in beating the peasants with the butts of their guns. Yet the men sang and shouted, the successful candidate appeared and made a rousing speech and it was long after daylight when the last reveller was silenced and the town sank into its normal stupor.
Ever since, the Opposition candidate has been in the Hungarian Parliament and it is a pleasure to relate that, on the whole, he has been one of its ablest and most honest members, occupying many positions of trust and prominence, visiting the United States on a mission of peace and received as an honoured guest at the White House. He does not know, however, that he owes his first election to a Jew who learned his earliest lessons in the game of politics in a certain town in the Middle West of the United States; a town famous for its brand of whiskey and its corrupt city government.
The daughter of the American, three years my senior, took the place of the miller’s daughter in my heart, and I think I loved her more than I loved Martha; for I was at the edge of a new life which came to me so early as to nearly overwhelm me by its force and power. While Maud was something of a “tomboy,” she could think seriously, and to her I owe my first glimpse of Dickens. She had a copy of “Dombey and Son” in German and I devoured it in a few days, shedding countless tears over it. With her I discussed my own problems of religion and race which overshadowed everything else in my life.
Her romantic vein was manifested when she inveigled me into going with her to visit the witch to have our fortunes told.
I was still mortally afraid of the old woman, for she was the typical witch, bent double, leaning on a staff, and ugly, with her face seamed by deep and curiously shaped wrinkles. She owned two ferocious black cats that were to me the personification of evil spirits. She lived in an isolated house by the creek and to reach it one had to pass a clump of ill-shaped willow trees, which fitted well into the gruesome atmosphere.
With fear and trembling I followed my American guide, for superstition is much more universal and more deep-seated than race characteristics. I felt like running away when we were in the circle of the willows, for in those crooked, gnarled, forked tree-tops, the witch was supposed to work her evil deeds. Maud drew me after her and we passed over the threshold, in doing which I stepped on one of the cats, thereby receiving a nervous shock from which it took me long to recover.
A fish-oil lamp filled the room with its vile odour, and when our eyes penetrated the semi-darkness, we saw the witch on top of the bake-oven. With many awful groans, she let herself down to the ground, and after receiving her fee, which the reckless American girl had made unusually generous, she proceeded to shuffle a greasy deck of cards; then laid them on the dirty floor to discover what fate had in store for us.
Like all fortunes that are told to sentimental young women, and romantically inclined youths, the prophecy culminated in marriage. The cards told that I would travel very far and marry a rich young woman. Maud was to marry a poor man but was promised that happiness in love which is better than gold.
The prophecy had a marvellously stimulating effect on us both; we lost all fear, and a strange new feeling began to manifest itself, as we walked hand in hand into the oncoming night. When I reached home I dreamed my first dream about the future and the far-away land to which I was to travel. That of course would be America and the rich young bride would be Maud.
Our peasants used to say that dreams of marriage bring misfortune, and misfortune came apace. Suddenly Maud’s father recovered his health and the family prepared to return to the large and luxurious home that had been so often described to me, from the big, sweeping lawn to the public school where Jews and Gentiles mingled, and from books and games to pop-corn and tomato salad, which latter seemed to me rather barbaric luxuries. I was tragically unhappy and so gloomy that I threw myself on the bed, and mother, fearing illness, sent for the doctor. He felt my pulse, looked into my throat, prescribed some harmless pellets and left me to my gnawing agony which grew greater and greater as the hour for the departure of the omnibuses drew near. Now we had to speak of these in the plural; for the American visitor had financed a new omnibus, with cushioned seats and a regular door.
The bells on this new omnibus were twice as big as that on the old one, but they sounded funereal to me that morning. I meant to stay in bed and cover my head with a pillow, that I might see and hear nothing; I even hoped that I might die of suffocation; but as the bells drew nearer, the love of life—and the love of love gripped me. Leaving my bed, I dressed quickly, and before mother could prevent me I was running after the omnibus at breakneck speed. It had a fair start but I knew that at the Oresco Hill it would begin the slow climb upwards and I could catch it. Breathlessly I reached it after a run of miles. I jumped onto the step and when Maud saw me her face flushed from pleasure or anger, I cared not which. I clung to the door and looked piteously at her, begging her to take me to America. Her father and mother laughed at me and the boys laughed too; but she came close to me while the vehicle swayed from side to side, and kissed my cheek, saying: “Good-bye; remember the prophecy.” Then I lost my hold and slid to the ground.
For a long, long time the kiss burned upon my cheek; for it was not like the kiss of the miller’s daughter.
XVI
THE CUP OF ELIJAH
“WHERE shall I put the chair for the Prophet Elijah, motherkin?” I was helping my mother prepare the Passover. This was no easy task, for the supper is a religious service as precise and solemn as high mass in a cathedral.
“Opposite the host and nearest the door, that he may step in and out unobserved,” my mother replied, a wee bit of a smile playing upon her sad face. It was sadder to-day than usual, for the Passover is a family festival; the father is the high priest and master of ceremonies, and my father being dead, his brother, our pious Uncle Isaac, was to preside at the feast.
With a deep sigh, mother placed the shining brass candlesticks. In their graceful curves I could see my elongated face, much to my amusement. Then she arranged the dishes in their proper places, filling the huge pewter platter with unleavened bread which she covered with a bright cloth. On this in her maiden days, she had embroidered the triangular shield of David, and in Hebrew letters, the blessing spoken before the breaking of the bread. Then with skillful fingers she divided the portions of bitter herbs and knowing my aversion to them, put at my plate the smallest quantity possible.
“Israel has had enough bitter herbs, in Egypt and out of it,” she said. “I think the rabbis might have spared us this memorial. Do you hear those Gentile youths talking? That is our bitter herbs, and we may get more of them than we can eat.”
There was danger of a mob that night, for the entire Gentile community was agitated over the alleged disappearance of a Gentile girl. Yet the Jews were hurrying past our house to the synagogue for the evening service. They were greeted by such pleasant words as: “How many Gentile children have you slaughtered?” “We’ll drive you back to Jerusalem, where you belong.”
No, we did not belong here. In spite of the fact that generations of mothers reared their children in this valley of the Carpathians, and generations of the young buried their aged in the God’s Acre at the edge of the far-stretching town, we were still strangers and sojourners. To live here was a privilege grudgingly granted, and although death regarded neither Jew nor Gentile, our graves were dug in alien soil, and the God’s Acre stood in disputed territory. We were such strangers in the land of our birth, that as a child I scarcely knew the colour of the sky above me or the shape of the mountains which girdled the valley. The spring wind wakened flowers that never bloomed for me, and the song of the thrush and the nightingale was drowned in the chirp of the sparrows and the cawing of the ravens, of which alone I was conscious, because every man’s hand was against them as it was against us.
Mother did not wish me to go to the synagogue service, so I helped her with the Passover feast. After the doors were bolted and the windows barred, she brought out the silver goblets from which generations of our ancestors had partaken of the Passover wine. With especial care, she unwrapped the richest and most massive one and giving it to me said: “Put it at the prophet’s place.” It was his goblet and never had been touched by the lips of a mortal.
“The Prophet Elijah,” my mother continued, more to herself than to me, “is a guest whom we shall need to-night as never before.” Even while she spoke, a stone was hurled against the shutters, the concussion breaking several window-panes.
“Mother!” I cried in great fright, “are you sure that the prophet will come?”
“I am quite sure he will come,” she replied, “although I have never seen him.”
I did not ask any more questions, for I knew her heart was heavy and I could see that she was not far from tears. She now lighted the candles, thanking God that He had thus commanded, and then went to look after affairs in the kitchen; for prayers and Psalms were to alternate with delicious soup, fish, and roast lamb with all its accompaniments. At least a week is spent in preparation for the Jewish Passover. The home must be cleansed from cellar to attic, that even the slightest particle of leaven be removed. House cleaning before the Passover is an exacting religious ceremony, a marvellous provision for an Oriental people to which personal cleanliness came as the fiat of Heaven.
My mother was a daughter of Israel, who “looked well after the ways of her household,” but as she lighted the match to set fire to the gathered leaven, I heard her say the usual prayer with great fervour. “We praise Thee, Lord our God, King of the whole world, for commanding us to burn the leaven.”
At last my uncle came, his three sons with him, and breathlessly they told of the gathering mob and of stones crashing through the synagogue windows. Yet in spite of all this apprehension, my uncle put on the robes of his priestly office, girded his loins and praised God loudly for having delivered His people out of the bondage in Egypt. As we praised Him in prayers and hymns, so we praised Him in eating of the food He had provided; for were we not protected by the invisible guest, the Prophet Elijah? Was not his goblet filled, although his chair was still empty?
Clearly and triumphantly my uncle sang the jubilant notes of Israel’s redemptive journey from Egypt to the Promised Land while the rest of us timidly chanted the amens and hallelujahs. The villagers, attracted by the service, had gathered in front of our house in increasing numbers. Stones began to fly against the shutters and a crowbar was being applied to the bolts and hinges; yet undisturbed, my uncle, this high priest of Jehovah, continued the service, while we, more and more frightened, tremblingly murmured our parts.
At a certain point in the service, just before drinking the wine, a door is opened to the Prophet Elijah. This was my task and I always felt it a somewhat awful one. Now when the critical moment came, I could not move. I seemed petrified by fear, for the crowd, growing impatient, was making a fierce assault upon our front door. Then, at the moment of greatest suspense, the miracle occurred.
“Hello, good Christians!” cried a strong, resonant voice. “Is this your Easter celebration? Is this the way the risen Lord has taught you to treat your neighbours?”
“Your Reverence,” we heard one of the mob reply, “they have slaughtered Anushka, the daughter of the stone-mason, and they are now drinking her blood out of silver goblets. We want to avenge her death.”
“You lie! It’s a black, dastardly lie!” the voice replied. “Go to the Black Eagle inn, and you will find your Anushka in the arms of the judge. Now drop that crowbar, you young brute, and go to the Black Eagle, and if it isn’t as I have told you, you may brand your pastor a liar. You youngsters, drop those stones and go home to your beds and thank God if you do not end your days in jail, you young ruffians!”
Slowly the crowd dispersed and our fears were quieted.
Then mother said to me: “My son, open the door for the Prophet Elijah.” Without fear I sprang to obey and a man passed over the threshold, a gentle-faced man who walked softly towards the Passover table as though afraid of disturbing us. We looked at him in gratitude and astonishment.
“It is the pastor!” mother said, smiling her grateful welcome. “Sit down;” and he sat down in the chair of the Prophet Elijah. Then mother said: “Drink;” and he lifted the cup of the prophet reverently, glancing at the Hebrew letters engraved upon it. His lips barely touched it and he put it down again.
The pastor we knew only as a grave and gentle man who passed our house daily. He always greeted my mother and she acknowledged the greeting by her prettiest courtesy; yet they had never spoken a word to each other. I had heard him preach in his church in my race unconscious days when, hidden among the bellows, I pumped the organ; and I knew the quality of his voice. I never knew what he preached about, or that his religion and ours had anything in common.
My uncle knew not what to do. Grateful he was for this timely interruption. Yet I think he would rather have been torn by the mob than have a Christian pastor interrupt our Passover service, sit in the hallowed seat of the prophet and drink from his cup, too sacred even for our lips. Mingled gratitude and displeasure were written on his face. The pastor rose and apologizing for his intrusion, said:
“I came in to tell you that the mob has gone and that I have found the girl whose disappearance caused all this trouble. I also wanted to tell you that I tried hard to keep the people from gathering; but I could do nothing to prevent it until I found Anushka. Of course you know that our religion does not teach hatred of the Jews.”
My uncle, who had visibly shrunk from the pastor while he was speaking, said: “But, your Reverence, you have been sitting in the chair of our Prophet Elijah and drinking from his cup!”
“I drink of a cup like this at every Passover celebration in my church,” the pastor replied. “It is a cup hallowed by the lips of One greater than Elijah, One who believed that there should be no hate or war among God’s children, and who gave His life to seal that truth.”
“But there still is war, your Reverence, and there still is hate, and they are ready to kill us.”
“I cannot answer for the mob, Isaac Bolsover, I can only speak for myself. I have faced a dozen mobs to-day to save your people, because this Prophet who was greater than Elijah has taught me to love my neighbours and even my enemies. I am here to-night in obedience to His command of love. I preach it, and I trust you believe that I practice it. I certainly did to-night. Some day all men are going to obey this command.”
“You did that for our sakes? For Israel’s sake?” asked my uncle with much feeling. “Then sit down.”
The pastor lifted the prophet’s cup, saying: “Isaac Bolsover, some day I hope we will be able to drink out of the same cup, in the kingdom of God.” Then he sat down.
With wide-open eyes I watched this man who spoke a new language; a man of alien faith and blood, yet who spoke the things which were music to my young soul. He was not handsome, this Slavic pastor; yet that night he seemed to me supremely beautiful. My uncle’s theological interest had been aroused, and closing the prayer-book, open before him, he asked: “Your Reverence, what do you mean by the kingdom of God?”
“I mean,” the pastor answered, “that a day will come when all the scattered shall be gathered again; when no barriers of race and religion shall divide; when the strong shall serve the weak, the rich shall succour the poor and when the chief delight of men will be to do the will of God. Then the word of the prophet shall be fulfilled, when he said: And many people shall go and say, Come ye, and let us go up to the mountain of the Lord, to the house of the God of Jacob; and He will teach us His ways and we will walk in His paths: for out of Zion shall go forth the law, and the word of the Lord from Jerusalem. And He shall judge among the nations, and shall rebuke many people: and they shall beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning-hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more.”
“That is our Prophet Yesias, whom you are quoting,” exclaimed my uncle. “Do you know what the rabbis say? Why that day of the Lord has not come? Let me tell you.”
The pastor had risen, but he sat down again, and my uncle began his story from the Talmud, and being a Talmudist, he swayed back and forth in rhythmic motion as the words of simple eloquence passed his lips.
“Rabbi Chamina, son of Pappa, taught thus: One day, the Holy One, blessed be His name, took the book of the law and said:
“‘Every nation which has wrought for the sake of the fulfillment of the law may now appear before me and receive its reward.
“‘Then all the nations gathered together and the Holy One, blessed be His name, spoke, saying: Let them come nation by nation, and that which is the worthiest shall receive the reward and shall lead the nations of the world, that they may become one.
“‘The Assyrians came first, because they are the most ancient; and the Lord asked the Assyrians, What have you done to receive this reward of leading the nations of the earth, that they may become one? And they said, Lord of heaven and earth, we swept the earth with the besom of fury and broke the nations to pieces with the hammer of Thy wrath. We carved our name upon the hearts of men by fear, and chiselled upon the rocks with tools of iron, and we did it all that we might fulfill Thy law. And the Lord answered them and said, Ye have swept the earth with your fury that men might fear you; ye have broken the nations to exult in your own strength, and ye have carved your name upon the hearts of men and upon the rocks that it may not be forgotten, but I am the Lord whom the nations shall fear, and ye were not afraid of Me, saith the Lord. And the Assyrians left the presence of the Almighty trembling and sighing.
“‘The Roman nation came next because it is the mightiest and its fame is carried over the whole earth. And the Lord asked the Romans, What have you done to deserve this reward of leading the nations of the earth?
“‘And they said: Lord, we have established many cities and have destroyed many; we have built market-places to buy and to sell; we have erected magnificent bathing-places and have heaped up silver and gold, and all this for the sake of fulfilling the law.
“‘And the Holy One, praised be His name, answered them, saying: Ye fools of this world! Ye have done all this for your own sakes. Ye have established cities for your own glory and market-places for your own enrichment; ye have built baths for your own sensuous enjoyment and have heaped the silver and the gold for yourselves; but the gold and the silver are Mine, and ye have not brought them unto Me.
“‘And the Romans left the presence of the Almighty, and the Persians appeared, and the Lord asked them, saying: Ye Persians, what have ye done to receive the reward of leading the nations of the earth to become one nation?
“‘And they answered Him, saying: Lord of the world, we have built bridges and fortresses and have fought many bloody battles; we have led nations captive and wiped them from the face of the earth—all, that we might fulfill the law.
“‘And the Lord answered them: Ye have done all this for yourselves. Ye have built bridges to gather the toll, and fortresses to exact tribute; but I am the God of war, and ye have never made Me the captain of your hosts.
“‘And the Persians left the presence of the Almighty with fear and trembling.
“‘Then the Greeks appeared before Jehovah, and He asked them, saying: What have ye done to deserve this reward? And the Greeks answered Him and said: Lord of Heaven and Earth, we have built costly temples upon the mountains and planted groves in the valleys and filled them with beauty. We emptied the cup of wisdom and filled it with the wine of joy, all that we might fulfill Thy law. Then the Lord answered them: Ye have built the temples for the creatures of your imagination; ye have filled the silence of the groves with the children of your passion. Ye have drained the cup of wisdom and filled it with the wine of pleasure, and ye have forgotten that I am the God of wisdom, and that in doing My will is pleasure for the soul. And the Greeks also went away, and shame and confusion covered them.
“‘So the Lord gathered all the nations and found none which had done aught because it wanted to fulfill the law. All had lived, struggled, fought and heaped up wealth to satisfy their own selfish desires.’
“The words of the prophet,” my uncle concluded, “shall not be fulfilled until a nation arises which lives to do His will, which obeys His law; which if it creates cities, creates them for His glory; if it builds bridges, builds them to serve Him better; if it goes to war, goes to liberate the oppressed.”
“There is such a nation, Isaac Bolsover,” the pastor said, evidently astonished by this quotation from the Talmud so eloquently elaborated by my uncle,—“just one. It has fought a great war to liberate slaves, it professes to build cities to His glory; it receives all the strangers who come to it, when they flee from the wrath of the mob or the avenger. That nation is America. It is far away from us and we know little about it; but I believe it is the nation which will keep itself worthy to receive the reward, and that it will lead the nations into brotherhood.
“Good-night,” he said, rising from the prophet’s chair, with the prophet’s glow upon his face. “May you have a peaceful Passover, and remember that the prophet’s word shall be fulfilled.”
I had never seen my uncle so erect as when he stood to say good-bye to the pastor. For a moment he seemed caught by a great current, which lifted him from his isolation into a large world movement. “Good-night, and may God reward you for the kindness you have done to Israel this night.”
I held out my hand to the pastor and he took it gently; it was a soft hand, almost like a woman’s, but its touch was full of throbbing life, and by a sudden impulse I kissed it.
Hardly had the pastor gone, when my uncle resumed his chanting and read the closing prayers. Sleepily but happily we responded with hallelujahs and amens.
Before he left us my uncle pointed to the cup of Elijah and said to my mother: “That wine is unclean and so is the cup. The lips of a Gentile have touched it.”
Ah, mother of mine! how she rose in her gentle, womanly dignity as she replied: “He had a right to drink from it. Was he not our Prophet Elijah, and was he not sent from Jehovah to deliver us?”
When my uncle had gone and I was in bed, my eyes almost closed in sleep, my mother came to me, bearing in both hands the cup of Elijah.
“Drink from this cup, my son,” she said; “for the lips of a living prophet have touched it”—and I drank from the cup of Elijah.
XVII
THE TRAGEDY OF RACE
OUR physician was the one Jew who could travel on the Sabbath and neglect the other ceremonial duties of his religion without being strongly criticized or mildly cursed. Relieving pain and saving life were naturally placed above the law; so Dr. Blau, the best physician of that whole district, travelled in his carriage on the Sabbath, and when beyond the town boundaries had even been known to light a cigar. Although this sin was unforgiven, the community did not dare bring the doctor to account, for indeed, he was not only a good physician, but a good Jew in the best sense of the word. He was loyal to his race in spite of the fact that his profession took him into the best Gentile homes, where his skill and sympathetic spirit broke down race barriers, and he was accepted as an equal. His wife and the other members of his family shared in this immunity from religious observances and took more liberties than he, in spite of the fact that travelling on the Sabbath and non-attendance at the synagogue were not made necessary by their errands of mercy. As they wished to share in the larger social opportunities enjoyed by the head of the house, the children were not sent to the Jewish school, but had French and English governesses. They were taught all the social graces including dancing, but were rarely able to make use of their accomplishments, for Gentile society was practically closed to them, and Judaism had no society. It was a simple democracy in which the pious and righteous alone were exalted, and they did not dance, neither did they speak French or English.
The most ambitious member of the family was the “Gnaedige Frau Doktorin” as she loved to be called, and a gentle soul like the doctor—an idealist from the top of his bald head down to his toes—yielded all too readily to her scheme of bringing up the family in such a way as to separate it from Judaism and the Jews without in any way uniting it to another religious group. In a measure at least, the “Gnaedige Frau Doktorin” succeeded in her plans, for the young Gentile snobs did not seriously object to visiting her well-appointed home, to eating her cakes and drinking her coffee, flirting with Adèle, her beautiful daughter, or even to leading her son astray, if he needed any leading in that uncertain direction.
The son left little or no impression upon my mind—no more than a chilly blast of air or a passing unpleasant odour; not so with his sister Adèle. She was more than twice my age; all the Orient had been educated out of her face and form, but it lingered in her eyes and burned in her passionate nature. I often passed the house of the doctor and caught many a glimpse of its luxuriant interior. I nearly always saw Adèle at the piano and stopped to listen. She rarely spoke to me, for she had been trained not to speak to Jews of whom she was supposed not to be one. She played with vigour and feeling, her music soothed me and spoke to me as nothing else could, and I lingered by her window often and long. One day, shortly after I had been bereft of my American friends, she played and sang Schubert’s Serenade, and I well remember the hot tears rolling over my cheeks as those mellow notes struck at every one of my sore heart-strings. Strange to say, there were tears in her eyes too when she came to the window to cool her glowing cheeks, and when she saw me crying, my sympathetic emotion naturally drew us together. Before she closed the window she said: “Come in any time you want to, little boy, and I will sing and play for you.”
There was a soft cushioned divan upon which she always asked me to sit when I came, and I soon regarded it as my rightful place. I never taste any of the luxuries of life without recalling the first time I sank onto that cushioned seat after sliding to it over the highly polished floor. I do not believe that I could have been much inspiration to her, except perhaps as she saw my face light up at her joyous notes, or saw tears in my eyes when, with her soft alto voice, she sang the sadder German songs for which I especially yearned. I was a “melancholy Dane”—as I think all children are whose experience has outrun their years.
One winter’s evening when I called unexpectedly—for my visits were always in the daytime—I found my seat occupied by a young man. Other eyes than mine watched Adèle’s skillful fingers and looked at her as I had never seen a man look at a woman. He was the postmaster’s assistant, a Slavic youth belonging to a rich peasant family. He had entered government service by virtue of his father’s money and the fact that he became a Magyar, half-traitor to his race, and wholly conscious of it. He drew me to him on the cushioned seat and said something that made Adèle smile. I blushed, became uncomfortable, and ran out of the room as fast as the slippery floor would permit.
For a long time after that I did not stop at Adèle’s window. A sort of boyish jealousy kept me away, and besides, she now played only the joyous songs of her repertoire, for which I did not especially care. It may have been a long time or it may have been but a few weeks—time meant little to me then—when, in passing the house one afternoon, I heard her play again one of my favourites. I stopped but did not cry—for music had lost some of its mystery. When she had finished she saw me and came to the window and I noticed that she had been crying. She closed the window without speaking to me, which hurt me deeply, and the next time I passed I did not stop, in spite of the fact that I heard her singing “Du holdes Aug”—a most lachrymal song and one of my favourites. For many days after this the window remained closed and I heard no more music. At my home they were speaking in whispers about Adèle. I did not understand, but the assistant postmaster was involved. Whenever the gray-haired doctor passed, and mother saw him, she said: “Dear man, he is carrying a load.” When I asked what the load was that he carried, she said, “You are too little, you can’t understand.”
In spite of the fact that there was no music, I looked into the window every time I passed, which was oftener than necessary, for I wanted to see Adèle. Weeks and weeks elapsed and I caught no glimpse of her; indeed, I never saw any one in the room. One day, after a fruitless search through the window, I met her right at the door, ready for a walk. I doffed my cap and looked into her face, which had grown thin and pale. When she saw me she smiled and took my hand. I walked by her side—not daring to speak. There were two avenues leading out of town, and both afforded some pleasure, for they were shaded. Both led to the cemeteries, one to the Jewish God’s Acre and one to where the Gentiles rested; although a high stone wall separated the dead who died in the faith of the Church of Rome from those who professed the faith of Luther. These walks were our Lovers’ Lane as well as the Via Dolorosa. Here troths were plighted, lovers kissed or quarrelled, and here weeping mourners followed the bier. Holding my hand firmly in hers, as if she needed support, Adèle and I walked out through the Allè, as this promenade was called. Under the gnarled acacia trees scattered benches stood, and at the further end, the Jewish cemetery began. Adèle sat down on one of the benches, drew a letter from her pocket and wept bitterly as she read it. Moved by her tears, I wept with her. At last she rose and we went to the God’s Acre. It was not an inviting place, this “Getot” as the Jews called it; for grave crowded grave, and one moss-grown stone leaned upon the other. Nowhere was there a straight line, a curve that suggested beauty, a plot of ground which spoke of care. The Jewish cemetery was outwardly as confused and individualistic as the Jewish community; but beneath the surface what perfect harmony and order! A Gentile woman kept the gate and provided vessel and towel for the ceremonial washing. No visitor leaves the abode of the dead without this purification. The woman watched our entrance with interest, for she did not provide the water and the towel for nothing.
The Jewish cemetery is hilly. On top of the hill they bury the pious and the learned; at the bottom the unlettered and the very poor. We climbed the slope and sat down on one of the graves. Adèle stared at me and at the headstones, nervously pulled weeds from the ground, then suddenly left me and walked rapidly away.
That evening I heard them say at home that a rich Jewish landowner was coming to see Adèle, and that they would be engaged, in order to prevent her marrying the Gentile. This interested me so much that I met the omnibus the next morning and had my first look at the stranger. He was a rather clumsy, homely, honest-looking man of nearly thirty years, whose gait and gesture smacked of the soil, and who, in spite of his good clothing, showed lack of breeding. A marriage agent was with him, and they went directly to the doctor’s house. The same evening it was reported that the engagement was announced and that the marriage would take place in six weeks.
I was present at the ceremony. It was performed according to Jewish custom, in the open air. The synagogue yard was crowded, and the busybodies talked and talked. They really had something to talk about, for the bride had to be fairly lifted from the carriage, and the doctor had grown years older. The pompous “Gnaedige Frau Doktorin” alone held her head erect and did not weep.
An orthodox Jewish wedding ceremony is a sadly solemn occasion. The groom wears his shroud and the bride’s head is covered by an impenetrable veil. The rabbi reads the ceremony in the Hebrew Chaldaic dialect which no one understands, the cantor chants a solemn tune and the parents walk about the bridal couple weeping and praying. Never before was there a wedding in our town so solemn as this, and when the bride lifted her veil to drink from the ceremonial cup, her face looked like that of a corpse.
The next morning, long before daybreak, sounds of weeping and lamentation came from the house of the doctor. We heard the mad shriek of an insane woman, then a man lifted his voice in a heart-broken wail, and all who went to the door and all who heard the cause, wept with them. The old doctor, broken-hearted, stood by his daughter’s bed, holding her lifeless hand in his; thus he stood, until the pious women came to prepare her for burial. When the pale morning grew bright and the Gentile community wakened to its tasks and duties, a shot was heard in the post-office. Through the crowd gathered there, an old peasant and his wife forced their way. Beside the desk where he had worked, lay their son—with a bullet in his brain.
XVIII
THE FIRST APOSTASY
WE who lived in the town were the envied of our race who lived in the scattered villages among the mountains. We had the synagogue, the centre of spiritual and social life, and we had the school. In spite of the fact that many of our Jews hated one another because of business competition, there was a community interest which held all of them together—making them, in a measure, share the common joys and certainly the common griefs.
We had no aristocracy except that of piety and learning and in this the poor excelled the rich; so that life, such as it was, with its dangers and drudgeries, was shared life—and thus became bearable.
The village Jew had cause to envy us. He lived isolated among an alien and often hostile population, whose social pleasures he could not share, even had he cared to. If he lived near enough, he came to the synagogue each Sabbath, taking steep climbs over many rough miles; but more often he could come only on the holy days, for distances were great and the means of communication difficult. The term “Village Jew” was synonymous with crudity and ignorance; in fact, the life of such an one did not differ much from his peasant neighbour, except in a few important particulars. The peasant drank palenka. The Jew sold it to him; the peasant consequently grew poorer and poorer while the wealth of the sober Jew increased correspondingly. The peasant had no ambitions beyond his meat and drink, while those of the Jew were boundless, and although he could not achieve much more than the accumulation of moderate wealth, the future of his children was assured to such a degree that he did not fear their being condemned to the life of a “Village Jew.”
The children came to school in town, which was no little burden upon our community, but a burden which was gladly borne. In spite of the fact that the “Village Jews” were better off than the peasants, many of them could not afford to pay their children’s tuition and board, which the town Jews provided by free scholarships and by a very unique scheme of “boarding ‘round.”
At the beginning of the school year, parents went to the homes of the well-to-do and secured in each a certain day in the week on which the child would be a guest at table. This provided a variety of boarding places; a fact which had obvious advantages and disadvantages.
Our home was open to this invasion Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays, and it was the “Sabbath boy” as we called him, whose pathetic career had a lasting influence upon my life.
He came from the village of “Deephole,” a Slavic community, so hidden in the hills that not even its church steeple was visible from the main road. His father was a whiskey distiller and usurer, and the home smelt of vile liquor, which the peasants consumed in great quantities on the premises. On Sundays it was the scene of drunken brawls, which followed the weekly dance. The boy’s bed was underneath the table around which his father’s guests drank and made merry, and when the room was vacated, which was usually late at night, he went to sleep, breathing until morning the filthy, alcohol-laden air.
Nor were his waking hours much happier. His father, who was quick tempered, believed and practiced King Solomon’s advice to parents; while the mother did not have sufficient strength of character to shield her children from his brutal assaults.
When the boy came to town, he came into a new world and when he came to our home it was indeed to him a Sabbath of delight; for he was a growing boy who never had got enough to eat and our table was bountifully supplied. He was an ill-favoured, freckled, hook-nosed lad, extremely sensitive and shy. He never answered any questions beyond yes, or no, as if loath to lose any time from the process of filling up.
The Jew scarcely ever expects to be thanked for favours extended, so we were not at all astonished when, after feeding the Sabbath boy for four years, he dropped out with no word of acknowledgment, and another half-starved village child took his place.
Rabbinic law proscribed that walking on the Sabbath be restricted to 2,000 yards from the synagogue. These were marked out by wires, stretched across rather frail looking poles.
How many generations of children had been hemmed in by these rusty wires I do not know; but the beckoning fields in the spring, the butterflies, the corn-flowers and the poppies were mightier than the rabbinic law, and many a time I drew my mother past the boundaries, out into God’s open world. I delighted to watch the peasants at work in the field, and it took the firm hand of my mother to keep me from going to aid them at haying time, or when they lifted the heavy sheaves of rye upon their huge wagons, drawn by white, long-horned oxen. I do not know how many sins I was guilty of each Sabbath afternoon, for I loved to pluck the wild flowers and that was a sin repeatedly committed. I whistled secular tunes which no doubt was another; I ran many godless miles beyond the boundary, chasing rabbits and often stopping to read inscriptions upon the Christian shrines.
Ah, me! if only all my sins had left such unstained and pleasant memories. On these Sabbath walks I drew my mother into the villages which lay around us, and from which came our “day-eaters” as the charity boarders were called. We often stopped to inquire for them; but I fear my interest was wholly selfish, for invariably we were offered some refreshments, and in spite of my æsthetic delights in these Sabbath afternoon walks, they made me hungry.
Once we went to the village of Deephole. The wretched isbas crowded about the village church. Pigs, babies and geese bathed indiscriminately in the muddy pond; wrinkled, toothless old women were breaking flax, while drunken peasants reeled out of the inn towards which we did not need to inquire our way.
Two rickety steps led up to the door, on which was a faded sign, stating that the government gave license for the sale of tobacco. A shrill bell announced our coming when we opened the door. The air was heavy from ill-smelling tobacco smoke, which helped to make the other stenches at least bearable. A wooden enclosure, reaching from the beaten earth floor almost to the ceiling, fenced in the bar, where a Gentile girl measured out palenka, for on the Sabbath a Jew may not engage in business; hence the proxy. Watching her, as an eagle watches her prey, was the Jewess, her smooth false front and clean dress being signs of the holy day.
When she recognized my mother she fell weeping upon her neck; mother wept too, although not knowing why and I began to whimper and cry in sympathy. The Gentile bar maid took an ancient looking stick of candy out of an open jar and, giving it to me, assuaged my grief. The Jewess locked the bar, temporarily suspending business, and drew my mother into the adjoining living-room, a third of which was occupied by a bake-oven, which served as bed for a fair share of the large family. On top of the oven lay the husband—paralyzed. His black eyes seemed to be the only members of his body that he could move and they were pathetic in their mute helplessness and appeal for sympathy. I caught but snatches of the story as it was told my mother. It was all about our “Sabbath boy.” “He ran away from home—the father, God forgive him, was too hard on him.” Not a line came from him—not a sign of life. When the peasants came home from their annual pilgrimage to the Shrine at Maria’s Bosom, they told how they had seen a freckled, hook-nosed acolyte there, who looked just like the little “schid” that ran away. The same evening his father started for the town, walking, without stopping and without eating. Day after day the mother waited but no word came from her husband. She closed her home and started after him, taking the children with her. When they came to the town and inquired for him, she was led to a hospital in which Sisters of Charity walked about noiselessly. “So kind they were to think of it,” and they took her gently to a cot on which lay the motionless body of her husband. All he said, and that in a laboured, painful whisper, was: “Hashel has been baptized.” There the story ended, and as various things needed to be done for the sick man, mother did them.
Then she took my hand and led me back. Not once did she permit me to pluck a flower, or chase a rabbit, and for a good many Sabbaths after that I did not go beyond the rabbinic limit.
XIX
A SECTARIAN CONTROVERSY
EIGHT o’clock on a winter’s evening. Officially it was night and the silence was broken by the night watchman’s horn—a long, tubular instrument, made from the bark of a tree. The official night lasted until four o’clock in the morning, and from 8 P. M. to 4 A. M. the hours were more or less regularly announced by these same doleful blasts. They were intended to serve various purposes. First, of course, to assure old and young that the arm of the law watched over them and that its eyes were open; which, however, was not always true. Secondly, to warn evil intentioned persons; which no doubt it accomplished, for the blasts could be heard miles away. Lastly, they were intended to indoctrinate all of us, religiously and patriotically; for after each hour’s call, the watchman sang a song which varied much according to whether Roman Catholics or Lutherans were in power; whether Slav or Magyar held the reigns of local government.
The song as I first knew it was something like this, and was sung in Slavic.