the Jews. He read Russo-Jewish newspapers, thought much of Jewish
interests, and found that a new Jewish life was beginning in Palestine,
that Jews were emigrating there, and becoming farmers; that there was
hope of a Jewish state being founded, where Judaism could develop
freely and frankly to a strong and rich fruition. Palestine awoke in
the doctor the memories of his childhood years, of his father, the
storekeeper in a little town. He began to remember the Jewish holidays
that his mother had always kept;--the Jewish Sabbath, when she lit
candles; the congregation in which he had prayed; the Jewish Passover,
when all in the house was so clean, and the family gathered at the
Seder. It seemed to him that all this was closely related to Palestine;
that it came from Palestine. And there, in the new Palestine this all
would show itself stronger and freer, and the greater Judaism would
begin to develop. His eyes were suddenly opened and he beheld in
Palestine the great Jewish hope, so great, so holy, that repaid Jews
for their suffering, that gave Jews the courage and the strength to
bear all pain and insult for its sake. Palestine gave compensation
for all. He remembered, as in a dream, the Bible and the pictures in
the Bible, and his father. The pious storekeeper’s life suddenly grew
more interesting to him. He saw a certain relationship between his
father, the poor, forlorn Jew in his little home town, and the heroes
of the Bible. It was Palestine that bound them together. His father,
the storekeeper, came from the same land that knew Abraham, Isaac and
Jacob. He loved the same life they loved, and had the same duties and
customs they had. But here, in exile, where he was oppressed he could
not live like the patriarchs, the tillers of the soil, the shepherds.
Here he had but the Sabbath and the Passover that the Patriarchs had;
but there, in the land of the patriarchs, the Jews lead a patriarchal
life; they till the soil themselves; they guard the sheep themselves,
and live in godly piety. There Judaism shows itself in its full
richness and greatness, only there can one understand what a moral,
religious people the Jews are and how clean and simple is the life
they lead--there the Jewish holidays are celebrated in all their
holiness. There he would see with the same eyes and feel with the same
emotions the Jewish Passover, the Jewish Sabbath, the Jewish holiday,
as long ago, when he was a child and lived in the house of his father
and mother.
The doctor hid deep in his heart the secret that he had found Palestine
as one hides a great treasure. He was afraid to confide it to his
family. He became more restful and sure of himself. He no longer sat
locked up in his cabinet whole nights long. He went no longer to the
club; he began to eat together with his children; he even became very
kind to his wife. A sort of hidden joy smiled out of his eyes, and no
one knew what it was, just as no one knew the cause of the doctor’s
sudden change of habits.
He wanted to share his secret with Solomon--the boy would understand
the happiness the doctor had found, and he needed it as much as the
doctor himself. This would be good for the child, even heal him, the
doctor thought--and why not go there with the child after all? He
resolved to speak to Solomon about it. And as his custom was not to
leave anything undone till tomorrow, he wanted to speak at once, and
entered the room where the boy sat over a book preparing his lesson.
Without much ado, he patted the boy on the shoulder and said to him:
“Solomon, what do you think of Palestine?”
The boy opened wide his eyes and looked at the doctor in wonder.
“What made you think of this, papa?”
“Why not?”
It was soon seen that the boy had been interested in Palestine for a
long time. He was organizing a student’s Zionist Circle and knew of
all that was going on in Palestine, even to the name of all the Jewish
colonies. The father was beside himself with joy, and continued to pat
the boy’s shoulders.
“Would you like to go with me to Palestine?”
The boy looked at him in wonder.
“Do you really mean it, papa?”
“Of course, Solomon, of course. Don’t you see that I am being stifled
here? What have I got here?”--The doctor wanted to get rid of all that
had tortured him of late. He soon restrained himself, however, and
ended his words, half-laughingly:
“Of course, of course, Solomon. The Jews there are great, fine--That is
the place for Jewish life.” The doctor grew excited. “And you will go
with me?”
“Of course I will go with you,” the child answered.
“Even if mama and the older children remain here?”
“Let them remain if they like this place better,” the child replied. “I
want to be there where Jews are equal to others; where Jews are free.”
“Where Jews are free!” The doctor muttered as if to himself. “Good,
good, Solomon. Let them remain, let them remain, if they feel at ease
here.” The doctor was struggling with something in himself. He swiftly
disengaged himself from the boy and left the house, fearing that tears
would gush from his eyes,--his old, weary eyes, which sat in a heavy,
sleepy body overgrown with so much fat that it seemed his heart could
never be reached,--and yet....
From then on the father and the son found themselves in the strange
house. They felt themselves richer and freer than the others, and
looked at the mother, the sister, and the apostate, with pity. They
would sit till midnight over a map of Palestine. Solomon would show
where the Jewish colonies lay and what they were called; they had
even begun to study Hebrew. The doctor gave it up after the second
lesson--his head was too old to learn anything now. But not Solomon.
When Solomon spoke of the new life, when father and son dreamed of
Palestine, the old doctor’s heart grew glad, his great body became
lighter, and he felt that things were as once upon a time, when he
lived with his father, the storekeeper--once, in his childhood years....
One fine evening the doctor called together his family, and tried to
deliver a long speech. He did not succeed. At the last moment, when all
were solemnly assembled, he entered the room, struck the table with his
fist and cried in a voice not altogether calm, “Who will go with me to
Palestine?” When they looked at him in wonder, he turned to his sick
wife whom he almost killed with his loud voice and his swift, unusual
movements. “Do you want to go to Palestine with me, or to remain with
your Gentile children?” The wife looked at him with fear in her eyes,
and stammered: “I don’t know what you want of me. Where my children
stay, I will stay also.”
“Good, good,” the doctor roared. “Stay wherever you want to. I will
sell my property and separate from you. I and Solomon go to Palestine.”
At first they thought that it was a fit of anger on his part,--a thing
that had taken place often during the last days,--and that he would
quiet down. But they soon realized that he was in earnest. He ceased
to occupy himself with his practice, and visited the brokers trying to
sell the house. He succeeded in selling it for a very small sum.
Bidding farewell to none but Solomon, he left for Palestine to seek
rest for them both in the new home of the Jews.
A few weeks later, on a fine morning, Dr. Lazarovitch came back home.
Shamefacedly he stole into his house, ashamed to show himself to his
wife and children. They thought that he had come to take Solomon and go
away again. But they saw him resume his old practice. He was very quiet
and even more reserved than before. They did not ask him where he had
been nor what he had done.
He felt the questioning gaze of Solomon directed at him. The boy asked
him nothing, but seeing that his father was practising again, he lost
heart, and began to avoid the house as he had done after the apostasy
of Mikhail. The doctor felt guilty in respect to the boy, and avoided
all conversation with him. Each day the boy became paler and more
self-centered.
Once the doctor suddenly called him into his cabinet. The boy was
ghastly, and one could hear his heart beat. He was ashamed to look his
father straight in the eyes.
“I couldn’t remain there. You understand, Solomon?” The father
began quietly. “It was not what I expected. I thought it altogether
different, altogether different. But it was not what I expected.”
The boy lifted his eyes, and looked at his father. His look made the
doctor nervous. He forgot what he wanted to say to the boy regarding
his return, and began talking in a shrill, nervous voice.
“It is too hot there. Not our climate. I couldn’t acclimatize myself
there. I’m too old. You--perhaps--you are young, you might do it.”
The boy lifted his eyes again, and now it seemed to the doctor that he
saw a vague smile on the pale, cracked lips of his son, as if an older,
experienced man were looking at a boy. The doctor cried still more
angrily.
“What are you smiling at? Understand, I could not. Understand? I
thought Palestine a Jewish kingdom. I would find there what I had when
I was a child. A Sabbath. Holiday. In one word, a Jewish kingdom. With
a great Jewish life. Perhaps one is growing there. But I’m too old to
grow with it. I needed ripe fruit. Understand? Ripe fruit. And there
is none there. Everything is green, poor. I felt like a stranger, a
man from another climate. Understand? Another climate. You feel like a
strange plant in another climate.”
“Papa, it is not the climate that is to blame, but the plant.”
“Perhaps the plant. Too old. But there is nothing to laugh at.”
The boy pitied the man and said: “But papa, I’m not laughing. Who says
I’m laughing?”
“You aren’t laughing? Thanks. And I tell you that I gave up my ideal
because it is too hot there. And if you want to, go ahead and laugh
at it, laugh at a sixty-five-year-old jackass who is your father, who
could not acclimatize himself in a strange climate because it was too
warm. Laugh at it if you want to,” Dr. Lazarovitch yelled.
Two large tears shone in the boy’s eyes, and swiftly, without a single
word, he left the room.
Since then both father and son avoid each other, and when they meet
they are ashamed to look into each other’s eyes.
--Translated by Jacob Robbins.
A GAME
ABRAHAM RAISIN
Reaction, like a black vulture, had spread its wings over all that had
lived and struggled. The best and bravest of the revolutionary spirits
lost their courage and many were forced to wander forth, to escape to
foreign lands, some with the hope of coming back in better and more
tolerant times, others in doubt and despair.
Among the latter was Chayim Grossman, who from his twentieth to his
thirtieth year, had worked in the movement. More than one barricade had
he thrown up in Warsaw’s streets, more than one revolutionists’ banner
had he waved from its house tops, and not a few times had he exposed
himself to the peril of the bullets. But always his courage and his
faith in the holy cause had helped him to come forth from the battle,
safe in body and undaunted in spirit.
But at last even he lost courage, and as he reviewed his past
activities, for which hanging itself were little punishment indeed, he
was overcome by terror. Every night in his dreams there would appear
hangmen, in red garb, laughing loudly at him through grinning teeth,
and they would drag him somewhere up a high scaffold.... He would be
forced to crawl and climb, upward, upward, until he reached the top,
which was frightfully high. And now he would fall over the edge, and
on waking would find himself bathed in a cold sweat, while his terror
was greater than ever.
Shadow-like, he slunk through the “peaceful” streets, trembling at
sight of every officer and beholding in every civilian--a spy....
There was only one course left--to escape. But strangely enough, the
self-same Grossman who during his ten years’ service in the movement had
stolen across the border time and again, now developed a sudden fear
at the notion of crossing the boundary-line with the same trustworthy
agents as heretofore. And when his more intimate friends, also former
fighters for the cause, would ask him, “Chayim, why do you delay your
escape?” he would reply dispiritedly, “I tremble at thought of the
border. They’re watching very closely now.”
And of all these friends, once upon a time leaders in the revolution,
not one would attempt to give him the courage to cross in the old way.
This disheartened Chayim all the more, and like a caged beast he paced
back and forth, a solitary shadow in the great city of Warsaw, seeking
some avenue of escape from his danger....
One day, walking thus engrossed in thought through the Saxon Gardens,
where at every turn a gendarme was encountered, Chayim came face to
face with Henich, the son of wealthy parents, who had, however, been
very active in the days of the revolution and had been very friendly
towards Chayim. Henich took him to a secluded spot and whispered to
him, “Chayim, do you want to leave the country in the regular, legal
manner?”
“Do you need to ask that?” replied Chayim quickly.
“Well, just listen. My sister Eda is about to leave for Berlin, to
meet her husband, Sandrovitch. The passport is made out in the name of
both of them, but he left earlier than he expected ... so that you can
travel with the passport, as her husband....”
There flashed upon Chayim’s memory the black eyes and the bewitching
countenance of Eda, whom he had known well and with whom, in the
days of the revolution, he had spoken only of matters connected with
the struggle. Now, learning that she was already married, he felt a
queer twinge at his heart, and growing pale with emotion, he answered
quickly, “Yes, certainly, I’ll go as her husband.” Then noticing that
Henich eyed him suspiciously, he added: “I’ll avoid capture.”
Henich, being an amiable sort of chap, slapped him on the back,
“You--captured. That doesn’t worry us at all!” he exclaimed.
Then, after having made arrangements for leaving in about a week, they
separated.
That week went by as slowly as a year for Chayim. But not because he
was so eager to leave Warsaw and its terrors behind; rather because
of his desire to travel as the husband of dear, beautiful Eda. The
make-believe relationship began to take on for him a most serious
aspect, and as he lay in his room, which was situated in a remote
section of the town, he conjured up the pretty face of Sandrovitch’s
young wife Eda, who would soon be under his own personal care. A
trembling, new-born longing took possession of his heart....
Boruch Sandrovitch--Boruch Sandrovitch. He repeated the other man’s
name over and over again, so as not to betray himself at the border.
And so, muttering the name countless times during the week he began
to feel that from now on he was no longer Chayim Grossman, former
revolutionist, but Boruch Sandrovitch, a student of Berlin University,
a fair-haired fellow of twenty-five, whom the beautiful Eda loved to
distraction....
“Well, here is your wife!” Eda’s father, a tall, broad-boned Jew, with
a patriarchal beard, and gold-rimmed spectacles on his aristocratic
nose, turned to Chayim, who, at the words, was overcome by a sensation
of sweet warmth that suffused his entire being. He stole a bashful
glance at the slender Eda, who made a pretty picture as she stood there
in her traveling clothes, smiling sweetly at him.
“Take good care of her,” added Eda’s mother, a woman of some fifty
years, with large eyes and dressed in black.
“She’ll be as precious as the apple of my eye,” blurted Chayim
fervently, and of a sudden blushed at the impassioned tones of his
promise.
“And be sure not to forget that you’re Boruch Sandrovitch,” admonished
Eda, beaming at him with the same sweet, friendly smile.
“I’ll remember that only too well,” exploded Chayim, with the same
passion as before.
“Here is the passport; I am now in your hands,” declared Eda, giving
him the book.
Chayim placed it carefully in his pocket, and gazing at Eda most
eloquently he managed to exclaim: “This is a most pleasant charge.” And
immediately he regretted his words.
It was three hours’ ride to the border. Chayim sat the whole time at
Eda’s side, and wishing to become more intimate, he suddenly turned to
her and suggested, “I think it would help to avert suspicion on our
journey, if I were to use ‘thou’ in addressing you, and you likewise
with me.”
Having offered this short, practical suggestion he turned red, and his
heart beat wildly, as he waited for her approval.
“I really am in doubt,” she hesitated. “In high society man and wife
use ‘you’ in addressing each other.”
“But that might arouse suspicion in our case--I mean, that ‘thou’ would
be more to our purpose,” urged Chayim.
She finally consented.
Unfortunately, however, Chayim could find no opportunity for using the
coveted familiar pronoun. At last the longed-for chance arrived. He was
gazing out of the window. The sun, like a blood-red disc, was setting
behind a thick forest, gilding the tree-tops with its dying splendor.
Chayim, entranced by the scene, cried out, “Just see, Eda, see thou,
how beautiful!”
Eda arose and looked through the window. “Wonderful!” she exclaimed.
Chayim was right beside her, but instead of looking at the beautiful
sunset he sought to penetrate Eda Sandrovitch’s face, and he grew sad.
A moment later and the sun had sunk beneath the horizon, as if the
black forest had engulfed it.
They sat down and Eda began: “You know--”
“Thou knowest,” corrected Chayim. “We might betray ourselves.”
“Don’t worry on that score,” she replied, stubbornly. “You know that
we’re almost at the border.”
“We should be all the more careful for that very reason. So then, what
dost thou say, Eda?”
Eda smiled good-naturedly, replying, “If you desire to play the game,
by all means, with the greatest of pleasure!” And then, more playfully,
she added, “I say, my dear Sandrovitch, we’re soon at the border.”
“What of that, darling Eda?” He smiled in return, clasping her velvety
little hand.
She did not withdraw her hand. This made Chayim bolder. He pressed
closer to her, ever so close, and whispered tenderly, “What a sweet,
darling child thou art!”
She gazed at him with her large black eyes, in silence.
At last they pulled into Alexandrovna, the border station. The train
suddenly became alive with nervous activity. A tall gendarme with
forbidding mustache entered, crying out in official tones, “Passports!”
Chayim Grossman pulled out his passport and gave it to the gendarme.
“And you?” asked the latter in Russian, turning to Eda.
“She is my wife,” answered Chayim, in the same language.
“Very well,” was the response, as if approving the match. Chayim felt
distinctly flattered with the approval.
The gendarme collected the passports of the other occupants and then
left, locking the door of the coach.
“And now we are in very truth man and wife,” whispered Chayim
passionately to Eda.
“Yes, of course,” Eda nodded.
Her acquiescence made Chayim very happy, and he turned boldly to her,
asking tenderly, “Wouldst thou have a bite to eat?”
She smiled, and replied good-humoredly, “Not I, but perhaps you
would--that is, thou wouldst, beloved,” she hastened to correct herself.
“Yes, I’m really hungry.”
He arose, took down her little traveling bag, which contained their
lunch, and gave it to her.
She opened it and took out the food that her mother had prepared.
“Long life to my good mother,” blessed Eda, between bites, and her
large black eyes grew larger and darker....
“Eat, Sandrovitch,” she urged Chayim.
“Yes, my little dove. I’ll eat.”
Eda burst into laughter.
“You’re a perfect artist,” she whispered into his ear.
“Why?” he asked....
“Good heavens!” she replied, feigning anger because he did not
understand, and resumed her eating.
At this point the gendarme returned, accompanied by an officer, who
returned the passports.
“Boruch Sandrovitch!”
“Here,” answered Grossman, not without inner misgivings.
The officer examined him closely, gave him his passport and turned to
Eda.
“And you?”
“My husband,” she replied, pointing to Chayim.
“All right,” assented the officer, genially.
And Chayim Grossman, forgetting the revolution, the barricades, and his
hatred of the army, felt deep in his heart a warm gratitude towards
that young officer; a few moments later, when the gendarme and the
official had gone, he remarked, “There are some good fellows among
them, at that.”
“Devil take them, every one,” dissented Eda, much to Chayim’s
displeasure.
The train began to move.
“We’ve crossed the border!” she exclaimed joyously.
“We’re husband and wife just the same.... Germany is no better than
Russia.... We must continue to say ‘thou’ to one another.”
“As you say,” answered Eda indifferently. “Let it be ‘thou.’”
At each stop the train discharged a large number of passengers. Soon
Eda and Chayim were the only occupants of their coach.
“We are alone!” cried Chayim, in ecstasy.
Eda could not understand his great joy. She looked upon him coldly,
saying, “Now I may address you by your real name. And so, Mr. Grossman,
what are your plans in Germany?”
“Germany!” Chayim shuddered at the thought. “Germany?” He was silent.
He was at a loss for reply. He suddenly recalled that the game was
over; now he faced the real, hard, sad world of fact, and soon the real
Sandrovitch would come to claim this beautiful being as his own, while,
he, Chayim, in wretched loneliness, would wander aimlessly through the
streets of Berlin. The recollection of all this gripped him, and he was
overwhelmed by terror of the long, sinister future.
He gazed out of the window. The night was black. Here and there a light
would flash by in the darkness--a far-away gleam--would flash by and
melt into the night.
--Translated by Isaac Goldberg.
THE KISS
L. SHAPIRO
Rab’ Shachneh’s hands and feet trembled, and he felt an awful
bitterness in the mouth. It seemed to him, sitting in the chair, that
the wild uproar of the street, the howling and the whistling, the
cracking and the ringing of the shattering window-panes, were taking
place within him, within his own head.
The pogrom had broken out with such fearful suddenness that he found
himself forced to fly home without stopping to lock his shop. But on
reaching home, he discovered no one there. Sarah and the children had,
seemingly, managed to hide themselves somewhere, leaving the house and
their few belongings in God’s care. He himself, however, did not think
of hiding. He did not think of anything, in fact. He was conscious only
of the wild noises of the street, and the unbearable bitterness in his
mouth.
The noises sounded now nearer, now more distant, like the roar of a
neighboring conflagration. But suddenly, it surrounded the house on all
sides at once. The window-panes cracked, rocks flew into the room; and
the next instant, young peasants with flaming, drunken faces, carrying
knives and clubs, came crawling through doors and windows.
It then occurred to Rab’ Shachneh that he ought to do something about
it. And he lifted himself laboriously from the chair, and began to
crawl under a sofa, right before the eyes of the rioters. The peasants
roared with laughter.
“Nah! _There_ is a fool for you!” and one of them grabbed him by a leg.
“Eh, you! Get up!”
This brought Rab’ Shachneh to his senses, and he began to weep like a
child.
“Boys,” he pleaded, “I will let you have everything--the money, the
jewelry--everything. Spare my life! Why should you kill me? I have a
wife and children.”
But nothing availed him. They took everything, and beat him besides,
struck him in the face and chest, kicked him in the abdomen with mad
fury. He cried, pleaded, and they kept up their beating.
“Vasily, Vasilinka, you know me! Your father worked for us. Haven’t we
always paid him well? Vasilinka, save me! Save....”
A violent blow on the chest cut short his pleading. Two young peasants
sat on him and pressed their knees into his abdomen. Vasilinka, a small
spare fellow with a crooked face and grey eyes, spoke up proudly:
“You paid him, did you! Father worked, so you paid. I would have just
liked to see you refuse to pay him.”
Nevertheless it pleased Vasilinka greatly that Rab’ Shachneh should
have appealed to him for mercy, and he thereupon turned to the others.
“Now, boys, enough! Let the carcass be. You can see that it’s barely
gasping.”
Reluctantly, one by one, the peasants tore themselves away from their
victim, and began to leave the house, smashing whatever articles had
previously escaped their notice.
“Nu, Shachneh,” Vasily turned to him, “you have me to thank for being
alive yet. The boys would have made short work of you, if it hadn’t
been for me.”
He was on the point of leaving with the others, when something occurred
to him that made him halt.
“There!” he said, extending his hand to Rab’ Shachneh. “Kiss!”
Rab’ Shachneh raised his bloodshot eyes and looked at him bewildered.
He did not understand.
Vasily’s face darkened.
“Didn’t you hear me? Kiss, I tell you!”
Two of the peasants halted in the doorway, watching the scene. Rab’
Shachneh looked at Vasily and was silent. Vasily’s face turned green.
“Ah, Jew-face that you are!” He gnashed his teeth, and drove his open
hand into Rab’ Shachneh’s face. “You hesitate! Oh, boys! Come back
here!”
The two peasants came up closer.
“Ah, nu! Get to work, boys. Since he’s such a fine gentleman, he’s got
to kiss my foot! If he won’t....”
He sat down upon a chair. The two peasants grabbed hold of Rab’
Shachneh, and flung him at Vasily’s feet.
“Pull off that boot!” Vasily commanded kicking Rab’ Shachneh in the
mouth.
Rab’ Shachneh slowly pulled the boot off the peasant’s foot.
They stood face to face--a red dirty foot smelling strongly of
perspiration and a beaten-up face with a long, noble, dark beard.
Strangely enough the beard wasn’t harmed much. It was torn and plucked
in but a few spots, but it retained the dignity of respectability. From
above, Vasily’s crooked face looked down, glaring with its grey eyes.
“Kiss, I tell you!”