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 Gruenstein, 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 Gruenstein 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 Gruenstein 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 Gruenstein 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!"
"THE CHILD OF ATONEMENT."
(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 Sadagora, 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 Sadagora, 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.