Thousands of streams, thousands of rivers have passed over them, sand has covered them, storms have torn them,
Yet the old, old leaves live on ... though they be yellow, darkened, torn,—a hole here, a spot there;
Here a bit charred, there a line obliterated, and the whole has the appearance of an old cemetery....
What of that? Yes, indeed, that is a burial-ground where lies buried in the grave all that which we shall never have again....
And I, old, sick orphan, full of sorrow, of the awe of death, stand with bent head, stand and weep at the grave of our fathers....
XIV. THE JEWISH CHILD
Deeply buried in darkness, far from air and light,—do you see yonder the blind worm, as he creeps?
In the ground he was born, and it is decreed that forever, yes forever, he shall creep upon the earth....
Like a worm in the darkness, weak and mute and blind,—you live through the years of childhood, Jewish child!
At your cradle your mother sings not a song of a quiet, peaceful life, of freedom, peace,
Of the gardens, of the fields, where the blooming child plays and gladdens free and merry like the wind.
No, a spring of deep sorrow bubbles and resounds.... Oh, how bitter is the song that she sings!
Deep sobs, hot tears with a mighty power resound, bubble in the song day and night.
Deep sobs, hot tears, hunger, cold, drag along with you in the world.
And from your cradle to your grave, upon the long journey, there grow whole forests of sorrows without end....
XV. THE NOBLE TOM-CAT
A Fox, a cunning fellow and a jester, conversing once with a Tom-cat, made light of all the cats, so that he made him angry. "You know not, arrant Fox," said he to him, growing angry, "that I belong to the noblest tribe of beasts, for I am descended from a family of heroes without fear and reproach, who never have walked under a yoke of wain, nor plough, to gather in the hay, to till the field, to do what is not meet for a beast-hero,—nay, living aye in plenty, each his own master, by honorable robbery. In short, I am descended from the swift Tiger, who knows how to slay the kine; I am cousin to the Leopard, and even of his Majesty, the Lion, a not distant relative, although I myself, perhaps, be not a hero, nor great warrior, nor awful champion.
"That you are not a hero is easily discerned," our Fox retorted, "both by your weak paw, and by your looks, and by your size. Who does not know that the tail of the smallest dog—not to speak of his teeth—will chase you away like the weakest frog into some hole, agog with fear? You, my friend, are bold only with bones, in a corner of the room, making war on a quiet, hungry mouse. I know of the high deeds of
... Es is' wieder Jonkiper, nor dreissig Jāhr senen vun jener Zeit arüber.
Wieder is' die Schul vull mit Tales un' Kittel eingewickelte Jüden; der Pol is' mit Hēu ausgebett' itzt
your noble relatives,—but you do not live by honorable prey alone; you, my friend, are not ashamed to steal, to beg, and to flatter; you do not think it beneath you to nibble secretly at dainties." Saying that, he raised his furry tail in scorn and went away.
* * * * * * * *
The Old World is full of thousands of such Tom-cats, empty-headed braggarts, noble dragons, with long mustaches and glittering eyes, without power, without sense, or money, souls that are good only to crawl on high with plans that all end in smoke; who lick the plates of the rich, and miaul together with their kind in aristocratic fashion, and all they know is only their own names, and then from what Tiger they are descended.
XVI. THE ATONEMENT DAY
... It is again the day of Atonement, but since that time thirty years have passed.
Again the synagogue is full of men wrapped in taliths and shrouds! The floor is strewn with hay now
wie demālt; in zwēi grōsse Kastens vull mit Samd vun bēide Seiten Bime brennen heunt die wächsene Neschome-licht wie mit dreissig Jāhr zurück, chotsch nāch andere, frische Neschomes, wās senen erst in die dreissig Jāhr Neschomes gewor'en. Un' see brennen manche still un' ruhig un' manche flackerndig un' schmelzendig, un' Jünglech Kundeessim chappen die Stücklech ābgeschmolzene Wachs äuch heunt wie a Māl.
Chotsch die Stimme vun dem Chasen is' itzt andersch, āber die Wörter, wās er sagt, un' der Nigen, wās er singt, senen dieselbe, gār dieselbe, nit geändert auf ēin Hāar.
Dieselbe senen äuch die Trähren, wās giessen sich heunt teichenweis dort hinter die varhangene Fensterlech in der weiberscher Schul, chotsch vun andere Äugen, vun andere gepeinigte Herzer fliessen see....
Auf dem Ort, wu mit dreissig Jāhr früher is' die unglückliche Mutter gestan'en un' bewēint ihr liebe Tochter, wās is' asō jung vun der Welt aweg, stēht heunt äuch a Mutter un' zugiesst ihr schwer Harz in hēisse Trähren. Sie wēint un' klāgt über ihr schoene Tochter, wās sie hāt sich a Māl gebentscht mit ihr, a Maedel, schoen wie Gold, wās is' pluzling wie vun a Kischef varführt gewor'en, un' wās mit ihr thut sich itzt, is' schwer un' bitter selbst auszurēden; un' die ständig getreue Mutter bet' itzt mit Trähren, hēiss wie Feuer, nit Gesund, nit lange Jāhren far ihr Kind, āber a Tōdt a gichen, wās wet gleicher sein far dem Kind noch mehr wie far der Mutter.
Sie hāt noch ihr mütterliche Treuheit in ihr Harzen, wie noch ēhder das Unglück is' geschehn.... Nor take derfar bett' sie bei Gott asō hēiss ot dem Tōdt auf ihr Kind. Kēin bessere Sach seht sie nit in der Welt un' kēin ander Sach kānn sie bei Gott dem lebedigen heunt
as then; in two large boxes filled with sand on both sides of the altar there are burning to-day the waxen soul-lights just as thirty years ago, though for other, fresh souls that have become souls only within the last thirty years. And they burn, some quietly and softly, and some flickering and melting, and urchins are now as then picking up the pieces of molten wax.
Although the voice of the Precentor is now different, yet the words which he says, and the tune which he sings, are the same, precisely the same, not a bit changed.
And the tears are the same that flow to-day in streams there behind the curtained windows in the woman's gallery, though from other eyes they flow, from other tortured hearts....
On the same spot where thirty years ago the unfortunate mother had been standing and mourning her beloved daughter who had departed so young from this world, there is to-day also standing a mother and dissolving her heart in hot tears. She is bewailing and lamenting her beautiful daughter who had once been her blessing, a girl, as pure as gold, who had been misled as if by witchery, and of whom it would be hard and bitter to say what she is doing now; and the ever-true mother prays now with tears, as hot as fire, not for health, not for long years for her child, but for quick death, which would be better for the child even than for the mother.
She still harbors her mother's truth in her heart, even as before the calamity had happened.... For that very reason she prays to God so fervently to grant death to her child. She sees no better thing in the world, and she can ask for no better thing to-day of the living God.
nit betten. Un' es giessen sich ihre Trähren still un' fallen über die Wörter vun ihre Tchines; sie halt dem Kopp in Ssider eingegrāben un' schämt sich ihre Äugen arauszunehmen, tomer begegnen see sich mit Äugen, wās wöllen ihr Schand' dersehn, wās is' wie a Fleck auf ihr Ponim gewor'en....
Un' punkt dort, wu die āreme Almone is' gestan'en mit dreissig Jāhr zurück un' hāt minutenweis gekuckt, ihre Jessomim in Schul zu sehn, ōb see dawnen, ōb see nehmen a jüdisch Wort in Maul arein, un' hāt gechlipet wēinendig, as ihre Äugen hāben nit gefun'en, wās see hāben gesucht, stēht heunt a jüdische Tochter un' kuckt durch dās Vorhangel, un' sie wēiss allēin nit, auf wemen sie kuckt mehr, zi auf ihr Mann, wās macht wilde Bewegungen mit bēide Händ' un' mit sein ganzen Körper, oder auf dem jungen Menschen, wās sitzt äuch in Misrach-wand nit weit vun ihm un' dawent wie a Jüd' un' sitzt ruhig wie a Mensch.
Welche Gedanken läufen ihr durch ihr Kopp itzund! Wieviel Trähren hāt sie vargossen vun jenem Tāg ān, as der junger Mann is' gewor'en aus Chossen ihrer un' der wilder Chossen is' ihr Mann, ihr Brōtgeber gewor'en! Wieviel Wunden trāgt sie seitdem still un' tief varschlossen in ihr jüdischen Harzen un' peinigt sich vun ihre ēigene Gedanken, wās tracht sich ihr nit wöllendig, nor sie hāt kēin Kōach nit, nit zu trachten. Un' wie bett' sie itzt Gott, er soll auslöschen dās sündige Feuer vun ihr sündig Harz, auslöschen All's, wās brennt un' kocht in ihr, sie soll vargessen, wās is' gewesen, nit wissen, wie es darf zu sein, nor ēin Sach soll sie wissen, wie lieb zu hāben ihr Mann, welcher wet un' mus ihr Mann bleiben bis ihr Tōdt! Sie soll ihm lieben bei alle seine Unmenschlichkeit, bei sein Wildkeit, un' selbst wenn
And her tears flow quietly and fall on the words of her Prayer; she holds her head buried on the Prayer-book and is ashamed to lift her eyes, lest they meet some eyes that may recognize her shame which has become as a spot upon her face....
And precisely there where the poor widow had been standing thirty years before and had looked every minute to catch a glimpse of her orphans, to see whether they were praying, whether they were reciting the Hebrew words, and had burst out in sobs when her eyes did not find that which she had been looking for, there is standing to-day a young Jewess, and she peeps through the curtain, and she does not know herself at whom she is looking more, whether at her husband who is wildly gesticulating with both his arms and his whole body, or at the young man who is also seated at the Eastern wall not far from him and is praying as behooves a Jew and is sitting quietly as behooves a man.
What thoughts are now rushing through her head! How many tears she has shed since that day when the young man broke off his relations with her, and the uncouth man had become her husband, her breadgiver! How many wounds she has been carrying since then quietly and deeply buried in her Jewish heart, and has been tortured by her own thoughts which crowd upon her against her will, and which she has no strength to repel! And how she now implores God that He may extinguish the sinful fire from her sinful heart, that He may extinguish all that burns and boils within her, that she should forget all that had been, that she should not know how it ought to have been, that she should know but one thing, how to love her husband, who is and must remain her husband until her death! To love
er schlāgt sie, soll sie nor allēin wissen, Ssonim sollen nit derfrēut wer'en un' sie soll alle ihre Pein far Gut können ānnehmen, wie Der, wās thēilt dem Gōrel ein jeder Ischo, hāt a jüdischer Frau geboten....
Un' es fliessen ihre Trähren auf dem ēigenem Ort, wu es hāben asölche Trähren gegossen mit dreissig Jāhr zurück vun a ganz ander Grund un' Quelle. Un' see fallen auf dieselbe Wörter vun Machser, wās jede jüdische Frau varstēht see andersch als die andere.
Nor dort in Mairew-seit, nit weit vun Thür', wēinen die āreme jüdische Frauen äuch heunt mit dem ēigenem Nigen, mit dem ēigenem betrübten Harzen wie mit dreissig Jāhr zurück.
Āremkeit, Hunger, Nōt un' Mangel hāben alle Māl ēin Ponim, ēin Tam un' ēin Ort bei der Thür. Asō sauer un' bitter dās Gewēin, wās kummt vun Niedergeschlāgene, is' a Māl gewesen, wet äuch ēbig sein. Alle Wünsche un' Gelüste vun Menschen wöllen sich überbeiten un' beiten sich, nor der Wunsch vun dem Hungerigen wet ēbig bleiben dās Stückele Brōt; die Gelüste vun dem Nōtbedürftigen wet äuch ēbig hēissen: Vun der Nōt befreit zu wer'en un' nit mehr zu wissen vun dem Tam, wās es hāt!...
Un' dort bei der Thür stēhn itzt äuch nit wēniger Finstere, Ausgetruckente un Schofele, nebech, hören oder hören nit die Sāgerke un' wēinen, wie see zum Harzen is',—es is' Jonkiper.
Nor in rechten mitten Misrach-wand, auf dem ēigenem Ort, wu die frumme Gütele hāt mit dreissig Jāhr zurück gedawent, seht män itzt äuch a choschewe Frau, korew zu fufzig Jāhr, sitzt still un' trauerig, wie a Derhargete, ihre Lippen varschlossen. Die Äugen kucken in offenem Korben-minche, nor see sehn die Wörter nit.
him with all his inhumanity, with all his uncouthness, and even when he beats her, she alone to know it, lest her enemies be not rejoiced, and that she may accept all her troubles in good spirits, just as He who gives each woman her lot, has bidden a Jewish woman to do....
And her tears flow on the same spot where just such tears have flowed thirty years before for another reason and from another source. And they fall on the same words of the Prayer-book, which every Jewish woman interprets in her own way.
Only at the Western wall, not far from the door, the poor women are weeping to-day with the same intonation, with the same burdened heart as thirty years ago.
Poverty, hunger, misery, and want have always the same face, the same appearance, and the same place at the door. Just as oppressive and as bitter as the weeping that issues from the downtrodden has been before, it will eternally be. All desires and longings will change and are actually changing, but the want of the hungry will eternally remain a piece of bread; the longings of the needy will eternally be: To be freed from want and not to know the feeling thereof!...
And there at the door there now stand just such gloomy, emaciated, and dispirited women, who listen or do not listen to the Reader and weep out of the fulness of their hearts,—it is the Atonement day.
In the very centre of the Eastern wall, in the same spot where the pious Gütele had been praying thirty years before, one may even now discern a woman, nigh unto fifty years, sitting quietly and sadly, like one struck dead, with closely pressed lips. Her eyes look into the open Prayer-book, but they do not see the words.
Farwās wēint sie nit?
Is' ihr asō gut zu Muth, as selbst Jonkiper känn sie ihr Harz nit zuthun, zu dermāhnen, as kēin Gut's is' nit ēbig un' der lebediger Mensch wēiss nit, wās morgen känn sein?
Oder is' sie nit a jüdische Frau, a Frau vun a Mann un' Kinder, un' welche jüdische Frau hāt nit ergez ēine oder mehrere Ursachen, wegen wās Jonkiper zu betten un' a hēissen Trähr lāsen fallen?
Is' sie efscher asō hart un' asō schlecht, asō stolz un' vornehm bei sich, as ihr passt nit zu wēinen, Leut' sollen ihre Trähren nit sehn un' nit klähren, sie is gleich zu Allemen?
Nēin! Chanele, "die Gute, die Kluge" is' ihr Namen,—ihre jetzt truckene Äugen sāgen noch Eedes, as see hāben in sejer Zeit viel, viel gewēeint; sie is' nit stolz un' schämt sich nit zu wēinen, bifrat Jonkiper, wās wēint sich memeele!
Farwās-e wēint sie nit?
Es kucken auf ihr viel Äugen un' wundern sich: Wās is' heunt mit ihr der Mähr mehr als alle Jāhr? Nor sie kuckt trucken, wie varstēinert, in ihr Ssider; nit sie wēint, nit sie dawent. A Pāar Māl hāt sie dās Vorhangel varbōgen, a Kuck gethun in männerscher Schul, sich bald zurück aweggesetzt un' jeder Māl alls traueriger un' beklemmter wie früher.
As der Chasen hāt āngehōben dawnen Mussaf, hāt sie noch a Māl a Kuck gethun durch dās Fensterl, die Äugen senen unruhig umgeloffen über der ganzer Schul,—sie hāt sich zurück aweggesetzt.
"Er is' noch alls nitdā!" hāt ihr Harz geredt innerlich, "Zu Mussaf afile hāt er nit gekönnt kummen?
Why does she not weep?
Is she so happy that even on the day of Atonement she cannot prevail over her heart to consider that no good is eternal, and mortal man does not know what to-morrow may be?
Or is she not a Jewish woman, a woman having husband and children? and where is there a Jewish woman that has not some one or more reasons for weeping on the Atonement day, and shedding hot tears?
Is she, perhaps, so hard of heart and so bad, so haughty and conceited, that she does not think it proper to weep, lest people should see her tears and deem her equal with the others?
No! Chanele,—they call her the good, the wise Chanele,—her very dry eyes are witness that she has wept much, very much in her time; she is not proud and is not ashamed to weep, especially on the Atonement day, when tears come of their own accord!
Why, then, does she not weep?
Many eyes are looking at her and wondering why she is so different from other years, why she looks stolidly, like one turned to stone, into the Prayer-book, why she is neither weeping nor praying. A few times she pushed aside the curtain, looked down into the men's division, seated herself again in her place and looked each time sadder and more oppressed than before.
When the Precentor began to read the Mussaf-prayer, she once more peeped through the window, her eyes ran restlessly over the whole synagogue, and she went back to her seat.
"He has not come yet!" her heart spoke to her inwardly. "Even to the Mussaf he could not come?
Och, un' dās is' mein Kind, mein Bchor! Vun ihm hāb' ich dās asō viel Jessurim un' Schmerzen arübergetrāgen, bis ich hāb' ihm auf die Füss' gestellt!
"Jā, mein Kind, mein Wund'! Ein ander Mutter wollt' ihm sein Gebēin varscholten, sie wollt' gesāgt: Nit du bist mein Suhn, nit ich bin dein Mutter,—ich känn es āber nit,—sei mir mōchel, Gott in Himmel, wās ich ruf' ihm noch "mein Kind, mein Suhn!"... O, ich känn bei Dir auf sich betten a Tōdt, āber nit auf mein Kind!—Strāf' mich, Ribōne-schel-ōlem, mich, sein sündige Mutter, efscher bin ich schuldig in dem, wās er is' vun rechten Weg arāb un' hāt Dich, lebediger Gott, vargessen un' hāt dein Tōre varlāsen un' thut dein Gebot nit? Jā, ich bin schuldig, ich hāb' ihm zu viel lieb geha't; wās er hāt gebeten, hāb' ich gethun; ich hāb' sich mit sein frummen Vāter ständig arumgekriegt, as er flegt ihm bestrāfen wöllen. Ich hāb' ihm ausgehodewet, wie er is', un' mich strāf' far ihm!"...
J. Dienesohn.
Oh, and that is my child, my first-born! For his sake I have borne so many privations and pains, that I might be able to place him on his feet!
"Yes, my child, my sore vexation! Another mother would have cursed his bones; she would have said: 'You are not my son, I am not your mother,'—But I cannot do that,—forgive me, O Lord, that I still call him 'my child, my son'!... Oh, I can ask for my death of You, but not for the death of my child! Punish me, Lord of the Universe, me, his sinful mother! Maybe I am to be blamed that he has departed from the road of righteousness, and has forgotten You, O living God, and has abandoned Your Law and does not do Your commandments! Yes, I am to be blamed for it, I have loved him too much; I always did what he wanted me to do; I have always quarrelled with his pious father when he wanted to punish him. I have raised him such as he is, and do punish me for him!"...
XVII. ON THE BOSOM OF THE OCEAN
The terrible wind, the dangerous storm, is wrestling with a ship on the ocean; it is trying to break her, but she in distress cuts through the deep, groaning heavily.
The mast cracks, the sail trembles, frightful is the depth of the roaring waters; the wind struggles desperately with the ship in a life and death combat.
Now she must lie down, now again she must rise, now she is driven back, now forward;—the ship is a plaything of the waves that swallow her up and spit her out again.
The ocean roars, the billows rise, and lash, and thunder in awful terror, the murderous storm wants to destroy everything,—the abyss opens up its closed jaws.
There are heard sighs and prayers. Great is the danger and dreadful the calamity,—and everybody prays to his God that He may save and liberate the people from sure death.
Children weep, women wail; the people cry and confess their sins; souls flutter, bodies tremble in terror of the angry, destructive wind.
But below, in the steerage, two men sit quietly; no pain assails them; they seek no salvation, they make no plans, just as if all were safe and calm about them.
The water roars, the billows foam; the wind whines and howls insanely; the boiler gasps, the chimney buzzes,—but the men below, behold, they are silent now!
They look coolly into the eyes of Death; the dangerous might of the storm touches them not; it seems as though Death had reared the two in terror and dark night.
"Who are you, wretched ones, tell me, that you can suppress the most terrible sufferings, that you have no sighs and no tears even at the awful gates of Death?
"Say, have, indeed, graves brought you forth? Do you leave behind you no parents, no wife, no child who will lament you when you are lost here in the deep and dreadful abyss?
"How? Have you no one to be sorry for you, to long for you, or shed a tear, when the wet cemetery will cover you, when you will no more return to this earth?
"How? Have you no fatherland, no country, no home where to go to, no friendly house, that you bear such a contempt for life, and are waiting for the dark grave?
"Have you no one in heaven above to whom to cry when you are in trouble? Have you no nation, have you no faith? Miserable ones, what is your fate?"
The abyss yawns, the waves bellow, the shipladders crack, the storm rages madly, the winds whistle,—and finally one says in tears:
"The black cemetery is not our mother, the grave has not been our cradle; a good angel has borne us, a dear mother, endowed with love.
"A mother has fondled us, a tender, warm, friendly breast has nurtured us; a father, too, has stroked us and looked into our eyes, and kissed us tenderly.
"We have a house, but it has been destroyed, and our holy things have been burned; our dearest and best have been turned into bones, and those who survive have been driven away with fettered hands.
"You know our country; it is easily recognized by its unceasing baiting and beating, by its cruel riots, its ruthless destruction, and dealing death to the wretched Jew.
"Yes, we are Jews, miserable Jews, without friends or joys, without hopes or happiness. Oh, ask us no more, ask no more, oh, leave us in peace! America drives us back to Russia,
"To Russia, whence we have run away, to Russia, because we have no money. What is there left for us to expect, to hope for? Of what good is life, and the gloomy world to us?
"You have something to weep for; you have reason to murmur and to be afraid of Death! You have, no doubt, a home where to go to, and you have left America not from necessity.
"But we are forlorn and alone like a rock. Earth is too mean to give us a resting-place; we are voyaging, but, unfortunately, no one waits for us. Explain to me, pray, whither we are bound!
Dā, auf der Welt, hāt Bonzje Schweig's Tōdt gār kēin Rōschem nischt gemacht! Frägt Emizen becheerem, wer Bonzje is' gewesen, wie asō er hāt gelebt, auf wās er is' gestorben! Zu hāt in ihm dās Harz geplatzt, zu die Kōches senen ihm ausgegangen, oder der Marchbēin hāt sich übergebrochen unter a schwerer Last ... wer wēisst? Efscher is' er gār var Hunger gestorben!
A Ferd in Tramwaj soll fallen, wollt' män sich mehr interessirt, es wollten Zeitungen geschrieben, hunderter Menschen wollten vun alle Gassen geloffen un' die Neweele bekuckt, betracht't afile dem Ort, wu die Mapole is' gewe'n....
Nor dās Ferd in Tramwaj wollt' äuch die S-chie nischt geha't, es soll sein tausend Milljon Ferd' wie Menschen!
Bonzje hāt still gelebt un' is' still gestorben; wie a Schatten is' er durch durch unser Welt.
Auf Bonzje's Bris hāt man kēin Wein nischt getrunken, es hāben kēin Kōsses geklungen. Zu Barmizwe hāt er kēin klingendige Drosche nischt gesāgt ... gelebt hāt er wie a gro, klēin Kerndel Samd beim Breg vun'm Jam, zwischen Milljonen seins Gleichen; un' as der Wind hāt ihm aufgehōben un' auf der anderer Seit Jam arüber gejāgt, hāt es Kēiner nischt bemerkt.
Beim Leben hāt die nasse Blote kēin Schlad vun sein
"Let storm the wind, let it howl in anger: let the deep seethe, and boil, and roar! However it be, we Jews are lost, the ocean alone can allay our burning wound...."
XVIII. BONTSIE SILENT
Here, in this world, the death of Bontsie Silent produced no impression. You will ask in vain who Bontsie was, how he lived, and what caused his death. Did his heart burst, did his strength give out, or were his bones crushed under a heavy load ... who knows? Maybe, after all, he died of starvation!
There would have been displayed more interest if it had been a street-car horse that had fallen dead. Newspapers would have reported about it, hundreds of people would have congregated from all the streets to look at the carcass and even to survey the spot where the accident had occurred!
But even the street-car horse would not be honored in such a distinguished way if there were as many millions of them in existence as there are men.
Bontsie had lived quietly, and he died quietly. He passed through the world like a shadow.
No wine was drunk on the day of Bontsie's circumcision; no cups were clinked. At his confirmation he made no flowery speech ... he lived like a small, yellow grain of sand on the seashore, among millions of its kind, and no one noticed how the wind lifted it up and carried it on the other side of the Ocean.