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 Sadagora, 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 Sadagora 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 Gruen, 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
Sadagora--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 Sadagora, 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 Sadagora. 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 Sadagora. 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 Graefin'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 Sadagora.
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!"
"Only three miles.[3] The road is so bad."
[Footnote 3: An Austrian mile is equal to 4.714 English miles.]
"Only three miles!" she reiterated with dismay. "When shall we arrive at
Sadagora?"
"The day after to-morrow, at noon."
"The day after to-morrow!" she cried. "Then I can not be at home for six
days, and the Sabbath as well! Seven days--that is a whole week! Oh my
God! my God!"
She sat down in her corner again, and pressed her hands to her face. But
she could not shut out the pictures that had haunted her on the way.
Again it seemed that she heard the feeble cry of "Mother!... Mother!"
coming through the walls.
The travelers had overheard her conversation with the carrier, and when
they saw the woman's despair, asked him what was wrong.
Simon raised his hat respectfully to the gentlefolks, and related
Miriam's story.
When he had finished, the husband and wife looked at one another.
"It is dreadful, is it not, Ludmilla?" said the forester. "What a
horrible superstition!..."
"It is horrible, Karl," answered she. The happy expression left her
face, and she looked at Miriam with the deepest compassion.
The poor woman still sat motionless with her hands pressed upon her
face. She was shaken with physical pain and feverishness; but the storm
within her breast was infinitely greater.
The forester paid his bill, and his coachman came and announced that the
carriage was ready. The travelers put on their overcoats, but they did
not seem in a hurry to start.
"Karl," said the young wife, undecidedly.
"What do you wish, Ludmilla?"
"Karl--the poor, poor woman!..."
"Yes, Ludmilla, she is very much to be pitied...." They again paused on
their way to the door.
Miriam at the same moment let her hands fall, after passing them over
her face, as if to clear her thoughts. Seeing the travelers ready to go,
she rose and came toward them.
She looked at the lady with endless petition in her eyes, and folded her
hands as if in prayer to God, but she could not utter a word.
The lady's eyes filled with tears as she gazed at the pale
grief-stricken face before her. "Can I help you?" she asked.
"To Barnow," stammered Miriam. "Can you take me to Barnow?"
"Willingly," answered the lady. "We shall be glad to take you--shall we
not, Karl?"
"Ah, yes," he answered.
"And the rabbi!" screamed the two Jewish women. "Are you not going to
the rabbi?"
"What will the community say?" objected the carrier.
"They may say what they like," she answered--"I must go to my child!"
She seemed to lose her strength again after this effort, and the
gentleman and his servant had almost to carry her to the carriage. They
placed her beside the lady, and the forester took the opposite seat.
Poor Miriam did not observe this, and did not thank him. "Drive as fast
as the horses can go," he said to the coachman, and then she looked at
him gratefully.
She sat silently beside her newly found friends, only now and then
moving restlessly, as if the pace was too slow.
The horses went quickly, and it was still daylight when they reached
Barnow. The people in the streets stared at the ill-assorted company in
the carriage, and put their heads together as to what it could mean.
The lady blushed, but her husband shook his head, and said, "What does
it matter to us?" When they passed the large figure of the Virgin which
stands in a niche of the monastery wall, a sudden thought occurred to
him, and he said softly to his wife: "She was called Miriam (Mary), and
was a poor Jewish woman, and her heart was torn with grief for her
child!"
It was dark when they stopped at the door of the little cottage by the
graveyard.
Miriam sprang quickly out of the carriage. "May God reward you!" she
breathlessly ejaculated.
"Have you a doctor?" asked the gentleman.
"No," she replied; "the doctor is away, passing the recruits."
"Then I will send the private physician from the castle to see you," he
shouted.
Miriam, however, was beyond hearing, as she had hastened into the house.
The sick child was alone. A lamp threw its light upon her flushed face,
and showed that her skin was covered with moisture. She had only a light
sheet thrown over her.
Miriam quickly put warm blankets on the bed. "Her skin is moist," she
thought joyfully--"that is a sign of recovery."
Almost immediately, the gravedigger's wife returned to her charge. She
was much surprised to see Miriam, but she did not venture to reproach
her for coming back.
"The child was in such a heat," was all she said, "that I took off all
the blankets."
"That was a mistake," answered Miriam; "it is wrong to check
perspiration."
Then she knelt by the bed, feeling as if all must now go well.
An hour later a carriage stopped at the door. It brought the private
physician from the castle.
He examined the child, felt her pulse, and then covered her carefully
again; after which he desired the women to give him an account of the
illness from beginning to end.
"She has been in great danger," he said, when they had concluded, "but
that is over now. It was most fortunate that you were aware of the
necessity of keeping her warm when perspiration began."
Miriam's eyes glistened. "And if we had not been so?" she asked.
The doctor looked at her with surprise. "What a strange question!..." he
said.
"Answer me, I entreat!" she cried.
"Well," he replied, hastily, "the child would certainly, or rather,
would probably, have died."
"God be praised!" cried Miriam, adding, as she turned proudly to her
companion, "Now will you say that God has cursed me, when He has worked
such a miracle for me? It _was_ a miracle that the kind gentlefolks
arrived at the tavern at the same time as I--it _was_ a miracle, for
otherwise my child would have died!"
The child recovered.
And what did the people of Barnow say?
The conviction that a mother's love is strong enough to conquer
ill-will, and bring healing and salvation, would not have made them
cease their rancor toward the widow and her child; but this, in their
eyes, was a visible miracle wrought by God, and such a miracle was of
course more powerful than even a decree of the wonder-working rabbi.
ESTERKA REGINA.
(1872.)
Esterka Regina!...
That was what we school-boys used to call her when we returned home for
the midsummer holidays from the gymnasium at Taropol, or from that at
Czernowitz; and later on, when we were students at the University of
Vienna, we called her by the same name whenever we talked of the girls
at Barnow during any of our meetings with each other. Her real name was
Rachel Welt, and afterward, when she married lanky Chaim, the
cattle-dealer, Rachel Pinkus. She was a poor girl who lived in the
Jewish quarter in Barnow. She lived in the small dwelling close to the
Jewish slaughter-house, and her father, Hirsch Welt, was a butcher. He
was a big burly man, and was disliked because of his rough ways.
But that did not prevent us admiring her from a distance, and the
Christian _elegants_ of Barnow did the same with less reserve than we.
The unmarried members of the provincial court, instead of walking in the
Graf's garden during their leisure hours--a place where they would have
enjoyed plenty of fresh air and the perfume of flowers--chose rather to
wander up and down the narrow street in front of the slaughter-house,
where but little fresh air and no aromatic odors were to be found. Even
the officers of the garrison never seemed to tire of watching Hirsch
Welt as he used his butcher's knife in strict accordance with Talmudic
law. One and all of these loungers were actuated by the desire to catch
a glance from the bright eyes of Esterka Regina!...