(1870.)

Any one who was ever in Barnow was sure to make the acquaintance of Frau Hanna, mother of the chief of the Jewish session; and no one could know her without honestly liking and admiring her, she was so good and kind, and so very quick in understanding and entering into the thoughts and feelings of others. But it would be difficult to convey an adequate idea of her loving-kindness and wisdom to those who never knew her. She was called Babele (grannie) by everybody who lived in the little town, and not merely by her own grandchildren; and no wonder. She was never too busy or too tired to help those who needed her assistance either in word or deed; and even those who did not require money or advice used to delight in going to see her, and in hearing her stories of old times; for her renown as a story-teller was as great as her reputation for benevolence. Any one passing the old synagogue or judenburg about the third hour on a Sabbath afternoon in summer, might see with his own eyes what a crowd of attentive listeners she had, and might hear with his own ears how well worth listening to her stories always were. She used to sit on a rug spread out in the shade with her silent eager auditors, who sometimes numbered fifty men and women, grouped closely around her for fear of losing a single word that fell from her lips. Her stories were all about old days in Barnow—about things that had happened within her own memory, or that she had heard from others. Any attempt to reproduce her stories as she used to relate them would be very difficult, and if I try to do so, it is only because the tale I have chosen is the one she related far oftener than any other. I have heard her tell it scores of times, and will now endeavor to translate it from the Jewish-German in which she used to speak as faithfully as I can:

"Who is great," began Frau Hanna, "and who is small? Who is mighty, and who is weak? We poor short-sighted mortals are seldom capable of deciding this question rightly. The rich and strong are mighty and great in our eyes, while the poor and feeble are regarded as weak and small. But in very truth it is not so. Greatness does not lie in riches or in brute strength, but a strong will and a good heart. And, my friends, God sometimes shows us this very clearly; indeed, we Jews of Barnow can tell how our eyes were opened to this truth. On two different occasions our community was plunged in great danger and suffering from the oppression of the Gentiles around us, and on each of these occasions a saviour came forward from among us, and delivering us from our distresses, turned our mourning into joy. Who were these saviours of the people? Were they the strongest or the richest of the congregation?... Listen to me and I will tell you how it all happened.

"When you cross the market-place, you see a great big block of wood sticking out of the ground in front of the Dominican monastery. It is weather-beaten and decayed, and would have been taken away long ago, were it not kept as a memorial of a time of terror and despair.

"You know nothing of those old days, and you may be thankful for it! If I tell you about that time of misery, it is not that I wish to make your hearts heavy with grief for what is past and gone, or to fill them with bitter anger or hate. No; the sorrows of which I speak are over and done with, and those who suffered from them are dead and buried. It is written among the sayings of one of our wise and holy men: 'Forgive those who have trespassed against you, and return good for evil.' What I am going to tell you is the history of a great and noble deed that was done by one who lived and suffered during that time of dire distress—a deed that should make your hearts beat high when you hear of it, for it is as heroic, good, and great as was ever done on the face of the earth.

"Its author was a simple Jewish woman, whose heart had been steeled to heroism by the force of circumstances. Her name was Lea, and she was the wife of a rich and pious man called Samuel. The family was afterward given the surname of Beermann when the Austrians came into the country, and made it the law that our people should have German names as well as their old ones; for at the time when these events took place we had no such names. It was more than a hundred years ago, and we were still living under the rule of the Polish nobles.

"The single-headed white eagle was indeed a cruel bird of prey! Long ago, when it was full-plumaged, when its eyes were clear and piercing, and its talons firm and relentless in their grip, it was a proud and noble bird that held its own against both West and North, and protected all who took refuge under its wing most generously. For three hundred years we lived a free and happy life under the shadow of its wings; but when the eagle grew old and weak, and the other birds of prey round about had deprived it of many of its feathers, it became cowardly, sly, and cruel; and because it did not dare to attack its enemies, it turned its wrath upon the defenseless Jews. The power of the kings of Poland became a subject for children to jest about, and then the letters of freedom we had been given of old were no longer of any avail. The nobles became our masters. They oppressed us, extorted money from us, and disposed of our lives and property as it seemed good in their eyes. Oh, that was a time of unspeakable tribulation!

"Barnow belonged even then to the noble family of Bortynski, to whom the good Emperor Joseph afterward gave the title of Graf. Young Joseph Bortynski had entered into possession of his estate that very year. He was a quiet, pious, humble-minded man, and had been educated in a cloister. His ways were different from those of the other young men of his position in the neighborhood, for he hated wine, cards, and women, looked after the management of his property, and prayed four hours a day. He was just and kind in his dealings with his serfs; but we experienced very little of his kindness and justice, for he was hard and cruel to us. He once gave Samuel, the leader of the synagogue, his reason for treating us so badly: 'You crucified my God,' he said. Whenever he was inclined to act toward us with less harshness, he was prevented doing so by his private chaplain, a man who had formerly been his tutor, and who had great influence over him. His name has not come down to us, but he was always talked of as the 'black priest.'

"We Jews used to be very careful of our conduct in those days, and even those of our number who were evil-disposed refrained from deeds of wickedness. 'You crucified my God,' the Graf had said to Samuel, and had then added in a threatening tone: 'I give you fair warning, that if I find any of your people guilty of a crime, I shall burn your town as your God once did to Sodom and Gomorrah.' Our fears may be better imagined than described.

"So the spring of 1773 began. The Easter festival was about to commence, when it was rumored that the Empress-Queen at Vienna intended to deprive the Poles of their remaining power, and to govern the land hence-forward by means of her own officials. But so far as we could see, there was no sign of this intention being carried out.

"Samuel, the leader of the synagogue, and his wife Lea, lived in the old house in the market-place that is still known as the 'yellow house.' They were both very much respected by the community: the husband, because of his riches, wisdom, and piety; and the beautiful young wife, because of her gentleness and beneficence. They were in great trouble that Easter, for their only child, a little boy of a year and a half old, had died suddenly a few days before.

"Late one Sunday evening they were sitting together in silent grief. The Easter festival was to begin on the following evening, and Lea was very tired, for she had been busy all day long cleaning and dusting the whole house from top to bottom. Suddenly they were startled by a loud knocking at the house-door. Samuel opened the window and looked out. An old peasant-woman was standing at the door with a bundle on her back. On seeing the master of the house, she moaned out a piteous entreaty for admittance. She was too weak, she said, to walk home to her village that evening, and so she begged Samuel to give her shelter for the night.

"'This isn't an inn,' answered Samuel, shortly, at the same time shutting the window.

"'Poor thing,' said Lea, 'ought we to send her away?'

"'We're living in dangerous times,' replied Samuel; 'I don't like to admit a stranger into my house.'

"'But this poor creature is ill and weak,' said Lea.

"And as the old woman outside continued to make an appeal to his pity, Samuel gave way and let her in. The maid-servants were all in bed and asleep, so Lea took her guest to a garret-room, and, after providing her with food and wine, wished her good-night, and left her.

"Next morning the stranger took leave of her hostess very early, and with many expressions of gratitude. Lea was so busy all day making the final preparations for the feast, that she had not time to visit the room that had been occupied by the old woman until late in the afternoon, when she was making a last round of the house to see that no leavened bread was anywhere to be found. The room was perfectly neat and tidy, but she was astonished to find it pervaded by a most disagreeable smell. She opened the window, but that had no effect. She hunted about for the cause of the horrible odor. At length, on looking under the bed, she saw what made her blood run cold and her hair stand on end with terror. For under the bed there lay the naked corpse of a half-starved little child, with great wounds in its neck and chest. Lea at once understood what had happened, and struggled hard against the faintness that threatened to overpower her. The old woman had brought the corpse to the house, and had concealed it there, in order that the hideous old story might be revived that the Jews were in the habit of killing Christian children before the feast of the Passover; and terrible would be the vengeance taken by the Christians of the neighborhood. Lea recognized the full horrors of her position, and remembered the Graf's warning to her husband. She was nearly overwhelmed with the weight of her misery. For was it not she, and she alone, who, by inducing her husband to admit the woman into the house, had brought all the sorrow, persecution, and death that would surely come upon her home and upon the whole Jewish community? While she sat there shivering with fever and anguish, she heard wild cries, shrieks, and the sound of weeping in the street, and also the clank of swords. 'They are coming,' she muttered, and at the same moment a thought flashed into her mind, far more strange and horrible than a woman's brain had ever before conceived, and yet so noble and self-sacrificing that a woman alone could have entertained it. 'It was my fault,' she said to herself, 'and I alone must bear the consequences.' She rose to her feet, pressed her lips firmly together, and after a struggle regained her composure. Then taking up the child's corpse, she wrapped it in a linen cloth and laid it on her knee.

"She listened; ... the minutes seemed to drag. Then she heard the young Graf's voice outside speaking passionately to her husband and another member of the session in these words: 'The woman heard the death-rattle distinctly. I will not leave one stone upon another if I find the body.' She heard the men going through all the rooms in the house. As their steps approached the one in which she was seated, she rose and went to the window, below which the roof fell away steeply, and overhung the paved courtyard of the house.

"The door was thrown open violently; the Graf entered, accompanied by the two members of session, and followed by his men-at-arms. Lea sprang forward to meet them with a wild laugh, showed them the child's body, and then flung it out of the window on to the court beneath....

"'I am a murderess,' she cried out to the Graf; 'yes, I am, I am. Take me, bind me, kill me! I murdered my own child last night; I don't deny it. You've come to fetch me; here I am!'

"The men stared at her in speechless amazement.

"Then came furious cries, shouts, and questions. Samuel, strong man as he was, fainted away. The other Jews, at once perceiving the true state of the case, and seeing no other way of saving the whole community from certain death, supported her in her statement. Lea remained firm. The Graf looked at her piercingly, and she returned his gaze without flinching: 'Listen, woman,' he said; 'if you have really committed the crime of which you have confessed yourself guilty, you shall die a death of torture far more terrible than any one has ever yet suffered; but if the other Jews killed the child in order to drink its blood at the feast, you and your husband shall go unpunished, and the others shall alone expiate their crime. I swear this by all that is holy! Now—choose!'

"Lea did not hesitate for a moment. 'It was my child,' she said.

"The Graf had Lea taken to prison and confined in a solitary cell. He quite saw all the improbability of her story, but he did not believe in any greatness of soul in one of our people. 'If it were not true,' he thought, 'why should the woman have given herself up?'

"The trial threw no light upon the subject.

"All the Jewish witnesses bore testimony against Lea. One told how she had hated her child; another how she had threatened to kill it. Fear of death forced these lies from their lips. The only Christian witness was the black priest's housekeeper—the same woman who had gone to Samuel's house on that fatal evening in the disguise of a peasant to bring destruction on the Jewish community. She told how she had heard the death rattle of the child during the night. She could not say more without betraying herself, and so her story tallied with Lea's confession. The 'black priest' took no apparent interest in the trial. He probably thought that one victim would suffice for the time, or it may be that he feared the discovery of his crime.

"The Graf's judges pronounced Lea guilty, and condemned her to be broken on the wheel in the market-place, and there beheaded. The wooden block in front of the Dominican monastery was placed there for this purpose.

"But Lea did not die on the scaffold; she died peacefully in her own house forty years later, surrounded by her children and grandchildren; for Austrian military law was proclaimed in the district before Graf Bortynski's people had had time to execute the sentence pronounced upon Lea, and an Austrian Government official, whose duty it was to try criminal cases, examined the evidence against her. Samuel went to him and told him the whole story, and he, after due inquiry, set Lea free.

"The wooden block is still standing. It reminds us of the old dark days of our oppression. But it also reminds us of the noble and heroic action by which a weak woman saved the community....

"And eighty years after that, my friends—eighty years after that—when we were once more in danger of losing our lives, who was it that saved us? Not a woman this time; but a timid little man whom no one could have imagined capable of a courageous action, and whose name I have only to mention to send you into a fit of laughter. It was little Mendele.... Ah, see now how you are chuckling! Well, well, I can't blame you, for he is a very queer little man. He knows many a merry tale, and tells them very amusingly. And then it is certainly a very strange thing to see a gray-haired man no taller than a child, and with the ways and heart of a child. He used to dance and sing all day long. I don't think that any one ever saw him quiet. Even now he does not walk down a street, but trots instead; he does not talk, but sings, and his hands seem to have been given him for no other use but to beat time. But—what of that? It is better to keep a cheerful heart than to wear a look of hypocritical solemnity. Mendele Abenstern is a great singer, and we may well be proud of having him for our chazzân (deacon). It is true that he sometimes rattles off a touching prayer as if it were a waltz, and that when reading the Thorah he fidgets about from one leg to the other as if he were a dancer at a theatre. But these little peculiarities of his never interfere with our devotions, for we have been accustomed to Mendele and his ways for the last forty years, and if any one happens to get irritated with him now and then, he takes care not to vent it on the manikin. He can not help remembering, you see, that little Mendele can be grave enough at times, and that the poor chazzân once did the town greater service by his gift of song than all the wise and rich could accomplish by their wisdom or their wealth.

"I will tell you how that came to pass.

"You know that a Jew is looked upon nowadays as a man like every one else; and that if any noble or peasant dares to strike or oppress a Jew, the latter can at once bring his assailant before the Austrian district judge at the court-hall, and Herr von Negrusz punishes the offender for his injustice. But before the great year when the Emperor proclaimed that all men had equal rights, it was not so. In those old days, the lord of the manor exercised justice within the bounds of his territory by means of his agent; but what was called justice by these men was generally great injustice. Ah, my friends, those were hard times! The land belonged to the lord of the manor, and so did all the people who lived on it; and the very air and water were his also. It was not only in the villages that this was the case, but in the towns too, especially when they belonged to a noble, and when their inhabitants were Jews. The noble was lord of all, and ruled over his subjects through his agent or mandatar.

"At least it was so with us in Barnow. Our master, Graf Bortynski, lived in Paris all the year round, and gave himself no trouble about his estates or their management. His agent was supreme in Barnow, and was to all intents and purposes our master. So we always used to pray that the mandatar might be a good man, who would allow us to live in peace and quietness. And at first God answered our prayers, for stout old Herr Stephan Grudza was as easy-tempered a man as we Jews could have desired. It's true that he used to drink from morning till night, but he was always good-natured in his cups, and would not for the world have made any one miserable when he was merry. But one day, after making a particularly good dinner, he was seized with apoplexy and died. The whole district mourned for him, and so did we Jews of Barnow. For, in the first place, Herr Grudza had been kind to every one; and in the second—who knew what his successor would be like!

"Our fears were well grounded.

"The new mandatar, Friedrich Wollmann, was a German. Now the Germans had hitherto treated us less harshly than the Poles. The new agent, however, was an exception to this rule. He was a tall, thin man, with black hair and bright black eyes. His expression was stern and sad—always, always—no one ever saw him smile. He was a good manager, and soon got the estate into order; he also insisted on the laws being obeyed; taught evil-doers that he was not a man to be trifled with; and I am quite sure that no one with whom he had any dealings defrauded him of a halfpenny. But he hated us Jews with a deadly hatred, and did us all as much harm as he could. He increased our taxes threefold—sent our sons away to be soldiers—disturbed our feasts—and whenever we had a lawsuit with a Christian, the Christian's word was always taken, while ours was disbelieved. He was very hard upon the peasants too—in fact, they said that no other agent at Barnow had ever been known to exact the robot due from the villein to his lord with so much severity, and yet in that matter he acted within the letter of the law; and so there was a sort of justice in his mode of procedure. But as soon as he had anything to do with a Jew, he forgot both reason and justice.

"Why did he persecute us so vehemently? No one knew for certain, but we all guessed. It was said that he used to be called Troim Wollmann, and that he was a Christianized Jew from Posen; that he had forsworn his religion from love for a Christian girl, and that the Jews of his native place had persecuted and calumniated him so terribly in consequence of his apostasy, that the girl's parents had broken off their daughter's engagement to him. I do not know who told us this, but no one could deny the probability of the story who ever had looked him in the face, or had watched the mode of treating us.

"So our days were sad and full of foreboding for the future. Wollmann oppressed and squeezed us whether we owed him money or not, and none that displeased him had a chance of escape. Thus matters stood in the autumn before the great year.

"It isn't the pleasantest thing in the world for a Jew to be an Austrian soldier, but if one of our race is sent into the Russian service his fate is worse than death. He is thenceforward lost to God, to his parents, and to himself. Is it, then, a matter for surprise that the Russian Jews should gladly spend their last penny to buy their children's freedom from military service, or that any youth, whose people are too poor to ransom him, should fly over the border to escape his fate? Many such cases are known: some of the fugitives are caught before they have crossed the frontiers of Russia, and it would have been better for them if they had never been born; but some make good their escape into Moldavia, or into our part of Austrian Poland. Well, it happened that about that time a Jewish conscript—born at Berdiezow—escaped over the frontier near Hussintyn, and was sent on to Barnow from thence. The community did what they could for him, and a rich, kind-hearted man, Chaim Grünstein, father-in-law of Moses Freudenthal, took him into his service as groom.

"The Russian Government of course wanted to get the fugitive back into their hands, and our officials received orders to look for him.

"Our mandatar got the same order as the others. He at once sent for the elders of our congregation and questioned them on the subject. They were inwardly much afraid, but outwardly they made no sign, and denied all knowledge of the stranger. It was on the eve of the Day of Atonement that this took place—and how could they have entered the presence of God that evening if they had betrayed their brother in the faith? So they remained firm in spite of the agent's threats and rage. When he perceived that they either knew nothing or would confess nothing, he let them go with these dark words of warning: 'It will be the worse for you if I find the youth in Barnow. You do not know me yet, but—I swear that you shall know me then!'

"The elders went home, and I need hardly tell you that the hearts of the whole community sank on hearing Wollmann's threat. The young man they were protecting was a hard-working honest fellow, but even if he had been different, it wouldn't have mattered—he was a Jew, and none of them would have forsaken him in his adversity. If he remained in Barnow, the danger to him and to all of them was great, for the mandatar would find him out sooner or later—nothing could be kept from him for long. But if they sent him away without a passport or naturalization papers, he would of course be arrested very soon. After a long consultation, Chaim Grünstein had a happy inspiration. One of his relations was a tenant-farmer in Marmaros, in Hungary. The young man should be sent to him on the night following the Day of Atonement, and should be desired to make the whole journey by night for fear of discovery. In this manner he could best escape from his enemies.

"They all agreed that the idea was a good one, and then partook with lightened hearts of the feast which was to strengthen them for their fast on the Day of Atonement. Dusk began to fall. The synagogue was lighted up with numerous wax-candles, and the whole community hastened there with a broken and a contrite heart to confess their sins before God; for at that solemn fast we meet to pray to the Judge of all men to be gracious to us, and of His mercy to forgive us our trespasses. The women were all dressed in white, and the men in white grave-clothes. Chaim Grünstein and his household were there to humble themselves before the Lord, and among them was the poor fugitive, who was trembling in every limb with fear lest he should fall into the hands of his enemies.

"All were assembled, and divine service was about to begin. Little Mendele had placed the flat of his hand upon his throat in order to bring out the first notes of the 'Kol-Nidra' with fitting tremulousness, when he was interrupted by a disturbance at the door. The entrance of the synagogue was beset by the Graf's men-at-arms, and Herr Wollmann was seen walking up the aisle between the rows of seats. The intruder advanced until he stood beside the ark of the covenant and quite close to little Mendele, who drew back in terror, but the elders of the congregation came forward with quiet humility.

"'I know that the young man is here,' said Wollmann; 'will you give him up now?'

"The men were silent.

"'Very well,' continued the mandatar, 'I see that kindness has no effect upon you. I will arrest him after service when you leave the synagogue. And I warn you that both he and you shall have cause to remember this evening. But now, don't let me disturb you; go on with your prayers. I have time to wait.'

"A silence as of death reigned in the synagogue. It was at length broken by a shrill cry from the women's gallery. The whole congregation was at first stupefied with fear. But after a time every one began to regain his self-command, and to raise his eyes to God for help. Without a word each went back to his seat.

"Little Mendele trembled in every limb; but all at once he drew himself up and began to sing the 'Kol-Nidra,' that ancient simple melody, which no one who has ever heard can forget. His voice at first sounded weak and quavering, but it gradually gained strength and volume, filled the edifice, thrilled the hearts of all the worshipers, and rose up to the throne of God. Little Mendele never again sang as he did that evening. He seemed as though he were inspired. When he was singing in that marvelous way, he ceased to be the absurd little man he had always hitherto been, and became a priest pleading with God for his people. He reminded us of the former glories of our race, and then of the many, many centuries of ignominy and persecution that had followed. In the sound of his voice we could hear the story of the way in which we had been chased from place to place—never suffered to rest long anywhere; of how we were the poorest of the poor, the most wretched among the miserable of the earth; and how the days of our persecution were not yet ended, but ever new oppressors rose against us and ground us down with an iron hand. The tale of our woes might be heard in his voice—of our unspeakable woes and our innumerable tears. But there was something else to be heard in it too. It told us in triumphant tones of our pride in our nation, and of our confidence and trust in God. Ah me! I can never describe the way little Mendele sang that evening; he made us weep for our desolation, and yet restored our courage and our trust....

"The women were sobbing aloud when he ceased; even the men were weeping; but little Mendele hid his face in his hands and fainted.

"At the beginning of the service Wollmann had kept his eyes fixed on the ark of the covenant, but as it went on he had to turn away. He was very pale, and his knees shook so that, strong man as he was, he could hardly stand. His eyes shone as though through tears. With trembling steps and bowed head he slowly passed Mendele, and walked down the aisle to the entrance-door. Then he gave the soldiers a sign to follow him.

"Every one guessed what had happened, but no one spoke of it.

"He sent for Chaim Grünstein on the day after the fast, and, giving him a blank passport, said, 'It will perhaps be useful to you.'

"From that time forward he treated us with greater toleration; but his power did not last long. The peasants, whom he had formerly oppressed, rose against him in the spring of the Great Year, and put him to death...."

"Now, my friends, this is the story of the Two Saviours of the Jews of Barnow. Let it teach you to think twice before saying who is great and who is small, who is weak and who is mighty!"

(1872.)

The heroine of this story is a child. Her name was Lea, and at the time of which the story treats, she was four years old. She had glossy black hair and large dark eyes. Her eyes, however, were not bright, for it seemed as if a shadow lay on her pale delicate face. She was the child of poor people, and had only one frock, which was patched all over—the same for Saturdays as for the other days of the week. It was hardly possible to distinguish the original color of the yellow gabardine.

But that was not the cause of the sadness of her expression, for what did Lea know of poverty? Every day her appetite was satisfied, or at any rate half satisfied; and every day she played in the sunshine as long as she liked.

She had the most beautiful playground that could be desired—large, green, quiet, and full of countless flowers, and of elders bowing their blossom-laden heads over many resting-places. Lea's playground was the Jewish cemetery at Barnow. It was strange to see the serious child wandering among the graves, or sitting on a stone watching the merry cockchafers running about in the grass; but this was not the cause of the shade of sadness on her face.

What did Lea know of death? She knew that her father was dead, and that death meant sleep, and never, never to be hungry more. How, then, could the daily sight of the graves have saddened her?...

No, it had not; and the Jews of Barnow were also wrong when they said, "The child is a child of atonement; how can its face be otherwise than sad?"

No; every trace of suffering in her pale face was an inheritance.

Poor Miriam Goldstein had borne the child beneath a heart that was heavy with grief and sorrow. Bitter tears had fallen upon the face of the little creature that lay upon her bosom. Such tears dry, but they leave their traces. Lea bore upon her countenance the marks of the tears shed by her mother.

Later, as the child grew older, her mother ceased to weep. The poor widow had no time for tears. She had to work all day long, and when she came home at night, she sank exhausted on her bed. Even when she wakened, and mused upon her hard sad lot, she did not weep, for she could always comfort herself with the reflection, "Thank God! the child and I are not obliged to beg or starve. Thank God! the child is well."

"The child is well."

Miriam Goldstein, widow of the gravedigger at Barnow, who received from the community as her widow's portion the grant of a little room in the cottage near the gate of the cemetery, and who worked in other people's houses all day long, did not weep during any sleepless hours that might come to her at night, because—her child was well. I ask all mothers—had Miriam Goldstein any cause for tears?

The days came and went. Little Lea was now four years old. She played on the grave-mounds during the long, bright summer days, crept about under the branches of the elder bushes quietly and happily, and beneath the clothes which her mother had hung up in long lines above the graves to dry.

Soon autumn came with its long damp evenings. It became dark early, and when Miriam was detained till a late hour, Lea used to wait for her patiently in their little room. She knew that ere long she would hear her mother's step outside, and her voice calling her as she opened the door. She could then run into her arms, and a fire would soon be burning to cook a warm supper.

But once, on a raw, cold September night, it was not so. The washerwoman came home and called her child, but no answer came.

Trembling, she struck a light. The room was empty.

"Lea!" she cried again, loudly and sharply.

Still no answer. She let her hands fall helplessly at her sides. Recovering herself quickly, she rushed into the room of her neighbor, the gravedigger who had formerly been under her husband, and who had succeeded to his place.

"My child!" she cried; "where is my child?"

The man and his wife stared at her as if she were mad.

"How should we know?" they at length answered, with hesitation.

"She is gone! Oh, help me, help me!" the mother cried in desperation, as she turned and hurried out into the dark burial-ground.

The gravedigger's wife searched the highroad which leads toward the town, while the man followed Miriam.

He distinguished her dark figure amongst the mounds and headstones, but he was unable to over-take her. She was running wildly over every obstacle, now stepping on a gravestone, and again stumbling over the root of a tree, calling her child loudly as she ran. The man knew the place well, and its terrors had become commonplace in his eyes; but still his hair stood on end with fear, as he ran in the dark over the graves, and the mother's despairing cry fell on his ears.

They both neared the spot where the burial-ground is bounded by the deep, sluggish river Lered. "The fence is broken," muttered the man, and he tried not to follow up the thought that had occurred to him.

But fate had been merciful.

As they hastened along by the side of the fence, and Miriam, with an almost failing voice, called her child, suddenly, from behind a gravestone, a thin trembling voice answered—"Mother!"

The little girl had run about the whole day. When the dusk had surprised her in this distant place, she had sat down and fallen asleep.

The child only half comprehended why her mother seized her hastily in her arms, and pressed her to her breast, covering her little face with a thousand kisses and tears.

Slowly Miriam carried her home, the gravedigger following and rejoicing, while he shook his head, and murmured: "It wouldn't have surprised me had we found the child dead. Not at all! The Great Death is coming near us again. They say that it has already reached the Turks!..."

Miriam did not hear these strange words. She carried the child into her little room, and put her in bed even more tenderly than usual, smoothing her hair off her brow, and kissing her mouth again and again.

Then she visited her neighbors, and thanked them in woman's fashion, in many words. After that, she returned to her own room, and thanked God with a long silent look upward.

She could not sleep, so she crouched beside the bed, and watched her sleeping child. But, heavens! what was the matter? The poor woman's blood turned cold, for Lea's usually pale face was flushed with fever, and she was breathing quickly and stertorously. Her hands and feet were cold, and her head was burning hot.

"Lea, are you ill?" cried Miriam. "Speak, my life!"

Hearing her voice, the child opened her eyes, but they were no longer lusterless. A strange unnatural light glowed in them. "I am cold," she lisped, drawing the bed-clothes about her.

"She will die!..." was Miriam's muttered thought, and she felt paralyzed for the moment. Recovering herself, however, she took her thin shawl from her shoulders, and her best gown from her box, and spread them over the child. Lea's teeth were chattering. She shivered with cold, though she seemed but half conscious.

Miriam once more hurried to her neighbors' room, and knocked at their closed door. She wished to beg them to come and tell her what was the matter with her child; for a Jewish gravedigger is required to visit the sick as well as to bury the dead. When the doctor is not called in, the gravedigger is sent for. But the man had gone to the town to keep the night-watch over the body of rich Moses Freudenthal. His wife came, however, and staid with the poor widow, in hopes of comforting her.

"It is only a fever," she said, consolingly. "The child has caught cold, and it is only a common fever. See, burning heat follows a shivering fit."

In fact, Lea's fever soon ran so high, that all her bed-clothes had to be taken off. The women made a strong herb tea, but the child would not drink it.

The terrible night passed very slowly.

In the morning, when the gravedigger came home from his sad vigil, he went to see the sick child. On seeing her, he shook his head. The mother wrung her hands in despair when she saw his gesture, and gave utterance to a low moan. He pitied her, and said slowly: "It isn't a dangerous kind of fever. Lea will soon be well."

"Tell me the truth," cried Miriam; "but I shall send for the doctor whether the illness is dangerous or not."

The gravedigger shrugged his shoulders. "The doctor has been at the muster at Zalesczyki for the last eight days. But even if he were here.... No doctor can help the child!"

"Must she die?" asked Miriam.

"No doctor, I say," answered the gravedigger slowly, "but a holy rabbi might save her. Old Moses Freudenthal's funeral is to take place to-day, and our rabbi is going to attend. Ask him to see the child, and bless it. He is a holy man—perhaps he is strong enough to save it, and perhaps he will give you advice."

So saying, he went away to prepare the grave. His wife followed him.

"I may as well dig two graves," said he, as he struck his spade into the ground.

"You mean for the child?" asked his wife. "Poor Miriam—God spare her!..."

"Yes," he answered, "it makes my heart ache. But no man can save her. They say that the Great Death is coming again. God will spare us. He will only take the 'child of atonement' that we have delivered up to Him."

"In God's name," cried the woman, "why should an innocent life be taken."

The man shrugged his shoulders, and asked: "Would you pretend to be more holy than our holy rabbi? Are you more just than the great Reb Grolce, the wonder-working rabbi of Sadagóra, who has ordained it so?"

The woman was silent.

What had the wonder-working rabbi ordained? And why did they call the child a "child of atonement"?

... Mysteriously, irresistibly, the destroying-angel of the Lord brought an unknown plague into every land in the terrible year 1831. It was called the cholera. It came from the far East, and spread onward to the far West, devastating the towns, and filling the cemeteries. It fell heavily on the dirty, poverty-stricken villages in the Podolian plain. Countless numbers of the inhabitants died like flies, and enough were not left to bury the dead. No remedies saved life; no precautions protected it. Stolid resignation, or else angry desperation, possessed the people. And God permitted all this misery, and from God no help came! They called upon Him and He did not hear!...

Why? Why?

Was it not their God whom they implored, the God of their fathers, the almighty, the just, and the only God? Had He no longer ears to hear, or arms to help? Why did He suddenly turn against His own people? Why did He not protect the good and the just among them?

The minds of the unhappy people began to waver. They had but one beacon to direct their lives—their faith; and their faith betrayed them. They could not comprehend it.

Then another thought occurred to them—a fearful and crushing thought, and yet it brought comfort. Was not their God a God of vengeance? Was He not a jealous God, who exacted, for every offense, a fearful and inexorable atonement? And now, when He caused the evil and the good to suffer alike, was it not probably because the wicked sinned, and the good allowed their sins to pass unpunished?

"We will purify ourselves," the suffering people cried aloud in their agony. "We will seek the offender in our midst, and by his punishment we will atone, and save ourselves from the wrath of God...."

And they purified themselves....

A tribunal was formed by the people—an awful court, which tried in secret, judged in secret, and punished in secret. It was stern and inexorable in the execution of its decrees, and no one could escape from it. It "vindicated God's holy name," and caused the hour of retribution to strike for many criminals who had evaded the laws. But with how much innocent blood had these fanatics stained their hands! Deeds were done in those dark days of madness and terror that chill the blood, and make the historian, who attempts to describe them, falter.

The pestilence became more and more terrible. The few doctors that remained folded their hands.

They could not alleviate the suffering of the people, far less could they save their lives.

Men ceased to persecute each other for real or imaginary sins. The growing burden of misfortune took away their spirit, and made them faint-hearted. They even prayed no longer; a mediator had to pray for them.

The intercessor they chose was the rabbi of Sadagóra, a little town in Bukowina. This man was called the "wonder-worker," on account of all that he had done, or was supposed to have done, for the people. To him the Podolian Jews turned in their dire necessity, imploring him to save them, by beseeching God in his own name, a powerful name; for it was believed that from his race the Redeemer was to spring: and it was said that he had upon the palms of his hands the stamp of the royal line of David. This mark was the outline of a lion imprinted upon the skin, and it was a sign that his mission was from God. Money and precious gifts were collected, and were given to the rabbi to insure his intercession with God; even the poor gave all that they possessed.

The disinterested rabbi promised to help the people. "You have all sinned against God," he said, "and you must all do penance."

He made a calendar of the days of expiation, and the days of fasting and mortification were punctually kept. Fear of death insured the fulfillment of all his injunctions. It may sound incredible, but it is literally true, that during this time the whole Eastern Jewish population only ate and drank every second day.

The result of this may be easily imagined. Their weakened frames were all the more liable to be smitten by the disease.

The renown of the rabbi was at stake, and with it the profits of his calling. He adopted another expedient.

"God is pleased," he said, "by an increase of His faithful people. Let each community choose a couple from its number, and marry them in the burial-ground—as a sacrifice to the angry God."

This new remedy had different consequences. In many places, the assemblage of crowds of people in the graveyards, in order to be present at the marriage ceremonies, helped to spread the plague. In other places, however, the insane remedy was harmless, as the "Great Death" was already passing away, and was soon to become extinct.

This means of propitiation was not soon forgotten; and in the year 1848, when, along with freedom, poverty came, bringing the "Great Death" in its train across the Eastern steppes, the panic-stricken people resorted to it again. These appalling marriages were solemnized everywhere.

One took place in Barnow. The unfortunate couple who were chosen—without any wish of their own, but by the will of the tyrants—to be endowed with a marriage-portion of misery, and to be made man and wife among the freshly dug graves, were Nathan Goldstein, the gravedigger, and Miriam Roth, a friendless orphan, and maid-servant in the house of the warden of the community. They saw each other for the first time when they plighted their troth under the open sky.

The couple, who were thus suddenly and horribly set apart to atone for the sins of the congregation, were resigned, and even happy. None knew better than these poor dependants how to appreciate the blessings of a home.

Miriam and Nathan were happy in their married life, and two children were born to them. Their first great grief was the loss of both of their children, who fell ill, and died within a few days of each other in the year 1859. God, however, repaired the loss, for in the spring of the following year, Miriam knew she was again to be a mother.

That summer, the destroying-angel once more came from the East, and brought a fearful scourge upon the neglected Jewish villages of the great Podolian plain.

Barnow was spared. One victim alone was taken—Nathan the gravedigger. The widow's grief knew no bounds, and she was left in an utterly helpless condition. The community, on the other hand, rejoiced at their happy escape from the plague, which died out altogether. They sent the good news, with grateful thanks and presents, to Sadagóra, where the son of the late wonder-working rabbi had succeeded to his father's office. The rabbi accepted the gifts, but declined the thanks; and when the deputation informed him of the one death that had taken place, he said: "God was well pleased with you when He withdrew the plague eleven years ago, after you had made a sacrifice to Him; but the people you chose to dedicate to Him did not please Him, so their children died. Now the man has died as a sin-offering for you all. If the woman has another child, it also will only live to be a sin-offering."

So spoke the rabbi, for the gravedigger's widow could give him no present. The men returned home and reported what he had said.

Miriam heard of it, and wept bitterly. But she had little time for weeping. She had to work hard to keep herself and her child from starvation.

So the years passed, until the sad autumn of 1863 came. The Poles had risen against the great Eastern nation, and a whispered rumor went through the land, that pestilence, the terrible sister of war, was again aroused.

Therefore the gravedigger did not believe that little Lea, "the child of atonement," would live.

The funeral of old Moses Freudenthal was over. He was a very old man, and few mourners followed him to the grave. After the service was over, these went away immediately, and the old rabbi, also, did not linger. The widow had humbly waited for this moment to step forward and ask the rabbi to come and see her child. She added no word of entreaty, but something in the tone of her voice, and in the expression of her eyes, involuntarily touched the heart of the old man. This woman embarrassed him—for was she not displeasing to God? Was not the destiny of the child well known—this "child of atonement"?...

But he went to the little house, and entered the room where the sick child lay. He bent over the bed, and looked at her in silence for a length of time. His expression was stern and harsh when he raised his head.

With intense anxiety the mother waited for him to speak, but the old man turned to go without uttering a word.

"Will you not bless the child?" asked the widow.

"Woman," answered the rabbi, gloomily, "no blessing can save her; and besides, I can not do it: it would be interfering with the Almighty."

Miriam threw herself upon the bed, with a loud cry, clasping the unconscious child to her heart, as though she would save her from every one, even from God. "Why," she cried, "why, rabbi?"

The old man looked at her darkly, then his eyes, as if confused, sought the ground. "You know," he said with hesitation, "why you and your husband were married. You know why he died, and what was the object of his death. You know the word that the great rabbi of Sadagóra has spoken concerning you and your child. And ... now ... the 'Great Death' is coming again...."

The woman understood him. "Ah," she whispered, in a low voice of indescribable scorn. With flaming eyes and glowing face she rose from the bed, so that she stood opposite the rabbi, and hissed out, "You lie, rabbi, you lie! My child shall not die!... God is wise, gracious, and just; but you, neither you, nor any of the others, are like God! You want to be just, and yet you demand that an innocent child should expiate your sins by its death! You want to be gracious, and yet you desire the death of another! You want to be wise, and yet you believe that God will allow this—our good, strong, just God!"

She clasped her hands over her forehead, tottered, and sank fainting on the floor.

"May God judge between you and me!" murmured the old man as he left the room.

A day and night passed, and it seemed as if God must quickly decide between the poor woman and the rabbi. It appeared as if He would be on the side of the rabbi, and of hard, stubborn mankind. When the gray light of the second morning dawned, and the flame of the night-light wavered in the draught of the cold autumn wind, which made its way through the badly fitting window-frame, the young life flickered under the icy breath of death, like a dying torch.

The mother wept no more.

She wept no more. The fountain of her tears was dried up, for the deepest grief is tearless. With dry, straining eyes she knelt by the bedside. Only at intervals, when the fever was at its height, she rose softly.

Hours passed, and all throughout the day the room was filled with visitors. A number of women came and went, and also a few men. Some of these may have come out of compassion, but most of them came for selfish reasons of mixed curiosity and pity.

Miriam saw them around her with indifference. Once only she roused herself to cry, "Go, go, there is nothing to see; the child is not dying yet!"

The people who were in the room went away reproved....

In the afternoon a carriage stopped at the cottage door. It was the warden's britzska, and a very old woman was seated in it. As she could not move without assistance, the servants lifted her out carefully, and carried her into the house. It was Sarah Grün, widow of a former warden of the community, and mother of Frau Hanna, whose stories were so deservedly popular in Barnow. Hanna was sixty years of age, and was nicknamed "Babele" (grannie), and Sarah, who was ninety, was called "Urbabele" (great-grandmother). They were known by these names to every one, great and small, Christian and Jewish, in the little town, and their superior age, wisdom, and knowledge were much respected. Miriam had formerly been a servant in their house, and had won the love of the old woman, who, notwithstanding the opposition of her friends, had now come to see her.

She was carried into the room, and put down on a chair. Miriam glanced indifferently toward her, then seeing who she was, her eyes brightened. "Urbabele!" she cried, throwing herself at the feet of the old woman—"Urbabele, God bless you!..."

She could not say more. Sobs stifled her voice, for at last she wept. The old woman passed her hand gently over her bent head. "Do not speak," she said; "I know your trouble—we all know it.... Do not speak, but hear what I have to propose; listen quietly...."

Her own tears were flowing, and falling over her pale sweet face as she spoke.

"I do not know—I am an old woman, my feet refuse to carry me, and my head is not as strong as it was—but I believe we are wrong in letting your child die. Yes, very wrong; for I do not believe it to be God's will that she should die, nor the will of the great rabbi of Sadagóra—since he is inspired by the spirit of God...."

The old woman paused for a moment, shaking her head as if she wished to negative some thought that had risen to her mind. Then she continued:

"Yes, he has certainly done great wonders. God's spirit moves him, and he has spoken His will concerning you and your child. We must believe what he says. I say that, whether we wish or not, we must believe him. For if we lose our faith in him, we lose our faith in everything.... Therefore our rabbi did not deserve the hard things you said to him yesterday."

"Ah, if you only knew!..."

"Do not speak!" said the old woman, emphatically, as if she wished to impress each word on the widow's mind; "do not speak, do not excuse yourself. You need no excuse. My God! who could blame you, when your child's life was at stake? I can not, for I also am a mother.... But listen to me: whatever the rabbi ordains must be—as you know.... I have thought of everything, and your only chance is to go to Sadagóra, and beg for the life of your child."

"And leave her alone, when she is ill?" cried Miriam.

"I will do all I can for her," said the old woman; and the gravedigger's wife added, "I will nurse her as if she were my own child."

"Must I go?" cried the unhappy mother.

"You must," answered the old woman decidedly; but she added more gently, "at least it seems that you ought to go, but God alone knows what is right. Ah, Miriam, you do not know how much I have thought and suffered for you and your child! For eighty years of my life, I have never lost my faith in God and in His prophets, and now I begin to doubt!"

Then she collected herself, and said in a tone of command: "Miriam, you must go to the rabbi. Tomorrow morning early, Simon the carrier is going to start for Czernowitz, with two women. He will take you as far as Sadagóra. I will engage your seat for you in the cart; and here is money for going and returning. In three days you can be home again, and I am convinced you will find Lea getting better. Will you go, Miriam? It concerns the whole town—but that is nothing to you—it concerns your child that you should go."

The poor woman had a hard struggle. Her old belief in God had been without avail, for the child was growing weaker. As a drowning man catches at a straw, she determined to beseech forbearance from the man whom she had cursed.

"I will go," she said, with a sort of agony.

And she did go.

Next morning she started with Simon and the two women, passing out of the town, and along the highroad which leads southward into Bukowina. What she suffered in taking leave of her child shall not be here described; there is enough that is sad in my story.

The sun was rising. It was a cold, dull September sun, and it shone with a pale light upon the flat desolate country, and upon the cart which crawled slowly along the muddy highroad. The clouds were gathering like a thick veil, and the day became more and more dull as the clouds grew heavier.

The soft, mild autumn wind sighed across the plain, and at times a gust shook the canvas awning of the cart.

The horses made their way slowly along the broad neglected road, beneath the leafless dripping trees, and past mist-enshrouded pools and poor villages, which looked doubly miserable on this miserable day. In many places the road was axle-deep in mud, so that the cart stuck fast. Simon and the three women had to dismount and push, in order to get it under way again. Miriam was certainly the weakest of the party, but she worked the hardest. She only roused herself at these times. Generally she sat with closed eyes, as if asleep.

She went through terrible suffering. Her eyes were shut, but vivid pictures were continually before them. She thought she saw her child stretching out her little arms toward her. Some one seemed to bend over the little girl. Was it the gravedigger's wife? No, it was not she, it was a white-robed figure, with a pale bloodless countenance, like the Angel of Death....

Another moment she imagined she was in the presence of the great rabbi of Sadagóra. He looked stern and hard, but she entreated him earnestly, as only a mother can entreat, for the life of her child, and he drove her away with cruel words. She thought she came back and found her child dead!... And again she pictured to herself that he received her kindly, saying, "Your child shall live," and she came home and found Lea dead ... dead!...

It was frightful!... The mild autumn wind still blew across the heath; but was it only the plaintive sound of the wind that reached her ears? When it blew a little stronger she thought it sounded like Lea's voice, crying, "Mother!... Mother!..."

"Did you hear anything?" cried Miriam wildly, seizing the hand of the woman nearest her....

At about two o'clock in the afternoon the cart stopped at a large, lonely tavern by the roadside, between Thuste and Zalesczyki. The horses were to rest here before proceeding farther. A well-appointed traveling carriage, out of which the horses had been taken, stood at the door, bespattered with mud as though from a long journey.

"Miriam, we are to stop here for two hours," said the carrier.

The women added compassionately, "Come, Miriam, get out. You will be ill if you don't eat some warm food."

Miriam got out of the cart and followed them into the large public room. "I must not let myself become ill," she murmured half aloud.

The large room, with its gray damp walls and uneven floor, was almost empty. One little table alone was occupied. The people seated there were a young couple in comfortable traveling attire. The man appeared to be about thirty years of age. He had light hair, and his expression was good-natured and energetic. His companion was a dark-complexioned and beautiful woman, whose bright eyes sparkled in her happy, pleasant face. That they were newly married was evident, and they talked and laughed and joked as they ate. They were enjoying but a poor meal, consisting of bread and eggs, for they had considered the prices of the tavern extortionate.

The three women sat down in a corner. "That is our Frau Gräfin's head forester," whispered one woman to the other; "he has just married a young wife in Czernowitz, and now he must be bringing her home to Barnow."

"To Barnow?" asked Miriam hastily; but she sank back in her chair again—she had to go to Sadagóra.

The women ordered refreshment, and Miriam ate a mouthful or two. She soon pushed her plate away, and when Simon came into the room, went up to him, and asked, "Must we stay here so long?"

"Yes—because of the horses," he answered. "We must stop here until four o'clock."

"So long!" she sighed. "How many miles are we from Barnow!"