those, for instance, that were filled in the days when a Czartoryski
hunted the Jews because there was so little game left in the
neighborhood. And then, again, in this very century, in those three
terrible summers when the wrath of God--the cholera--raged throughout
the great plain. Grass makes more resistance against the scythe than
these people did, in their narrow pestiferous streets, against the great
plague. The graves are innumerable, and the field in which they lie is a
very large one; but the community now living in Barnow is much smaller
than one would think on seeing the cemetery. But the very poorest
creature who is given a resting-place and headstone there, has it in
perpetuity; none will disturb his rest until, as they say, the last
trumpet sounds....
The headstone on every grave is of the same shape. No eccentric
monumental tablets are to be seen, and no artistically carved figure is
represented on any of the gravestones--the Jewish faith forbids all such
adornments. The only difference in these stones lies in the fact that
those of the poor are small, and those of the rich large; that the
inscription on the poor man's headstone shows him to have been an honest
man, and that on the rich man's makes him out to have been the noblest
man who ever lived--that is all; for even the arrangement of the
inscription is strictly ordained in the Talmodim. The insignia of the
tribe is put first, then the name of the deceased, followed by those of
his parents, and after that his occupation in life. Sometimes this last
is passed over in silence, for "usurer" or "informer" would not look
well upon a tomb, to say nothing of worse things. In such cases the
friends content themselves with putting, "He was indefatigable in the
study of his religion, and loved his children"--and, as a rule, this was
true.
Whoever reads these inscriptions will see that he need go no further in
search of the island of the blessed, or of the garden of Eden, where
angels walk about in human form--that is to say, if he believes the
inscriptions. The Semitic race goes further in showing reverence for the
dead than any other. The Romans contented themselves with "_De mortuis
nil nisi bonum_." They demanded that the dead should be spoken of with
kindness and respect, maintaining that such conduct was only seemly in
face of the majesty of death and the helplessness of the dead. The
Semites go further than this: they exact that only good should be spoken
of the dead. And if any man is so terrible a sinner that no good is to
be found in him, they keep silence regarding him....
They keep silence. The worst anathema known to this people is, "His name
shall be blotted out." And so in such cases they do not inscribe his
name upon his headstone. There is many a nameless grave in Podolian
burial-grounds. This is meant as a punishment, as a requital of the evil
the man had done while on earth.
And, again, it is meant in mercy: for on the day when the kingdom of God
shall come, the heavenly trumpets can not alone waken the sleepers; the
angel of eternal life is to do that. He will go from stone to stone, and
call the dead by the name inscribed on the headstone--the righteous to
unspeakable blessedness, and the wicked to unspeakable punishment. If no
name is carved upon the stone, he will perhaps pass on without arousing
the sleeper. Perhaps!--all hope that it may be so, in mercy to the
sinner!...
There are many nameless graves in the "good place" at Barnow, and in
some cases the punishment may have been well deserved. It is often the
hardest that has reached the criminal. The black deed has been done, and
the darkness of the Ghetto hid the crime. The Podolian Jews fear the
world, and a Christian is supreme in the imperial court of justice. They
do not like to deliver their sinful brother into the hands of an alien.
They punish him themselves as they best can: he must spend much money on
good objects, or make a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, or fast every second
day for years. His crime is hidden as long as he lives, and it is only
after his death that it is discovered.
Some very curious things are also looked upon as crimes, and punished in
the same way. Whoever hears of such can hardly help asking a very bitter
question--a very ancient and grimly bitter question, that can never die
out as long as the human race continues to exist on the face of the
earth....
For example, an old beggar once formed part of the Jewish community at
Barnow--a discharged soldier who had been crippled in the wars. No one
did anything for him. The Christians would not help him because he was a
Jew, and the Jews would not do it because he had eaten Christian food
for so long, and because he was in the habit of swearing most
blasphemously. Perhaps neither of these sins was entirely his own fault:
for no army in the world has ever put its commissariat under the charge
of a rabbi since the Maccabees fell asleep; and as for profane swearing,
it may be as much part and parcel of an old soldier as an acorn is of an
oak. But, however that may be, his co-religionists took both of these
circumstances in very bad part, and provided him with nothing but daily
lumps of black bread, and on Friday afternoons with seven kreutzers.
Even an old beggar could not live properly in Barnow on so small an
allowance, and the poor old man suffered frequently from the pangs of
hunger. So when the Day of Atonement came round again--the strictest
fast-day in the whole year--he found no pleasure in abstaining from
food, for hunger was no unusual feeling with him. He was discovered on
that day behind a pillar of the bridge with a bit of sausage in his
hand. He was not ill-treated, nor was his allowance diminished: and yet
fate would have been kind to him had he died in that hour: for were I to
relate all that happened to the old man, I think that the hardest heart
could not fail to be touched. But fate is seldom kind: he lived for many
years. When he died, his rich relations put a headstone on his grave,
but left it blank. But I think--I think, that the dead soldier is not
nearly so much pained by this, as he was by much that they did to him
when he was alive....
Close to the old soldier sleeps a man who met with a like fate. A very
strange man he was--Chaim Lippener by name, and by trade a shoemaker.
People who follow that trade have often a great liking for philosophical
speculation, perhaps because of the sedentary life they lead. Our Chaim
was also a philosopher after his own fashion. He never rose above the
basis of all investigation--doubt; and his favorite expression was, "Who
knows the truth?" As the pale little man felt himself unable to answer
the question by means of speculation, he determined to try whether
experience could not help him. He went from one sect to the other--from
the "Chassidim," or enthusiasts, to the "Misnagdim," who were zealous
for the Scriptures; then he joined the former again, and afterward went
over to the "Karaits." Then he took refuge under the banner of the
wonder-working rabbi of Sadagora, after which he remained among the
"Aschkenasim"--those are in favor of German culture--for a year, and
finally became a Cabalist. This he was for a long time; and as his boots
and shoes were good and well-made, people troubled themselves very
little about his midnight studies and his profoundly mystical talk. But
one cold, white moonlight night, when some men who had remained until an
unusually late hour at the wine-shop were returning home, they found a
man kneeling motionlessly in the snow at the foot of the great crucifix
at the Dominican monastery, his arms stretched out as though to embrace
the Christ. They stood still and gazed at the unwonted sight in
astonishment, but their surprise was changed into horror when they saw
that the solitary worshiper was none other than Chaim. They drew nearer,
but he did not hear their footsteps. Suddenly he began to speak aloud,
and in a sobbing, tremulous voice uttered a prayer in the holy language:
it was the blessing which is prescribed to the traveler when he sees the
sun rise as he journeys along. The listeners were at once filled with
pious wrath; they threw themselves upon the little man, beat him
unmercifully, and chased him home. Next morning there was great
excitement in the "Gasse;" even the most indifferent went up to the
synagogue to pray, partly from religious motives, to entreat God not to
avenge the sin of the individual upon the community--and partly from
curiosity, for every one wanted to know what penance the rabbi and the
council would impose upon the sinner. The congregation did not disperse
as usual after the conclusion of the service. The council took their
plans. But the culprit was not there, for the excitement and the beating
he had undergone had proved too much for his feeble strength--he had
fallen ill. As his presence was necessary, some men were sent to fetch
him. They brought him on a mattress. A great clamor arose as he was
borne up the aisle, and all those who stood near relieved their hearts
by spitting upon him. Then the rabbi commanded silence, and began a long
speech, in which the place where eternal darkness and eternal cold
reign, the place to which the wicked are relegated after death, took a
prominent part. Having thus spoken, he turned to the accused and asked
him what he had to say in his own favor. But whether it was that the
sick man could not speak, or that he had nothing to say, none can
tell--he remained silent, and only shook his head. This conduct
increased the general indignation; the rabbi made a solemn remonstrance,
and the others spat upon the offender. At length the little man raised
himself upon his pillows, looked at the zealots with quiet earnestness,
and began to speak. The words he uttered were few, and consisted merely
of his favorite question, "Who knows the truth?" The scene that
followed may easily be imagined. Those men who were not carried away by
fanatical zeal, protected Chaim with their own bodies: had they not done
so, his offense had been washed out in his blood then and there. At
last, quiet being restored, the rabbi was able to pronounce judgment. I
do not remember what the fine imposed on Chaim Lippener amounted to; but
so much I know, that he had to leave wife and child, and set out on a
pilgrimage to Jerusalem, from whence he was never to return. He was
commanded to tell every community he passed on the way what he had done,
and to request them to kick him and spit upon him.
He was never able to set out on his pilgrimage, for he fell into a
decline, and faded away like snow before the sun. He prayed so much
during the last months of his illness, that every one was convinced that
he was converted, and had turned from the error of his ways. I am the
only person who knew better; and as it can no longer injure Chaim to
tell the truth, I will now do so.
When I came home for the holidays in July, his wife came and asked me to
go and see him, but begged that it might be in the evening, that no one
might notice it. I did so. The sick man was very weak, but he had an
immense folio volume resting on his knees, in which he was reading
eagerly. After making long and rather confused excuses for the trouble
he had given me, he said that he wanted to know whether it was true that
the Christians had Holy Scriptures as well as the Jews. When I told him
that they had, he begged me to try and get him the book. This request
affected me curiously, almost painfully; but it was the wish of a dying
man, and--"Who knows the truth?" I found some difficulty in fulfilling
my promise, for Chaim could only read Hebrew. I sent to Vienna for a
translation the English Bible Society had made for mission purposes in
Palestine. The book was a fortnight in coming, and when it arrived I
could not give it to the man; but it did not matter, for he probably
knew more then, than he could have learned from that book and all the
books in the world....
Ah yes! these were strange, very strange, crimes. On that autumn day, as
I stood beside the two graves, I felt inclined to stoop down and say to
the dead: "Forgive your poor brothers; do not be angry with them, for
they know not what they do!..."
What a peculiar history the Jews have had! Their strong religion,
founded on a rock, was once a protection to them, and saved them from
the axes and clubs of their enemies. They would have been destroyed
without that protection, for the blows aimed at them were heavy and hard
to parry; and for that very reason, they clung to it the more
tenaciously, until at last, instead of enlightening their hearts, they
made of it a bandage for their eyes. They were not so much to be pitied
for this long ago, for then all the world went about with their eyes
bandaged. But now, when the light of day is shining in the West, and the
dawn has at last broken in the East, they have not raised the bandage
one inch. I do not want them to do it too quickly, nor do I want them to
throw away their faith; I only desire that they should open their eyes
to the light which is shining more and more around them....
It must be so; and it will be so. Necessity is the only divinity in
which one can believe without doubting or despairing.
Light will come to them; but no one can tell how long the light will
last, or count the victims it will destroy.
It is only by accident one hears of them. The living are silent, and the
graves are silent, especially those that are nameless. The history of
those nameless graves may be shown by a mark of interrogation, hard but
not impossible to decipher.
My curiosity was excited by the last of those blank headstones set up
in the cemetery at Barnow. I found it the last time I went there on the
beautiful September afternoon I have before described.
It was a solitary grave standing apart from the rest. It lay in the
hollow near the river, and close to the broken hedge. This in itself was
strange, for the dead are generally buried next to each other as their
turn comes to die. A family seldom has a plot of ground set apart for
itself--very seldom; for all who sleep here are members of the same
family.
An exception had been made with regard to this grave. Not another
headstone was to be seen far and wide; but to the right and left of it,
as close to it as possible, were two other graves--small graves,
unmarked by aught save the tiny hillocks they made. So small were they,
that one could scarcely see them under their covering of juniper-bushes
and red heather.
It was easy to guess who slept there: little boys who had died before
they were eight days old, before they had been given a name; and she who
lay between them must have been their mother, for the headstone was that
of a woman--one could tell that from its shape.
Hitherto men alone had been given nameless graves, because they alone
commit crimes, whether real or imaginary. The Jewish woman is good and
pious. It was the first woman's grave I had ever seen with a blank
headstone.
What had she done?
I puzzled long in the calm sunny stillness of that autumn day. I made up
one story after another, each more extraordinary than the preceding one,
to account for it; but again I was to learn that truth is often stranger
than fiction.
As I sat thinking on the grave, looking from me, and hardly seeing the
rainbow tints that the clouds of dancing insects took in the clear air
whenever a ray of sunshine touched their wings, I suddenly heard the
monotonous drawling sound of mournful voices, and looking up, saw two
old men advancing toward me along the hedgerow.
They were busied in the exercise of a pious rite that I had not seen for
so long, that, now that I saw it again, it struck me as it would have
struck a stranger. Each of the men was carrying a short yellow wooden
stick in his right hand, and round each of the sticks a thread was wound
closely and thickly, uniting them to each other; for one end of the
thread was wound round one stick, and the other end was wound round the
other stick. Whenever the men stood still, they held the two sticks
close together, and sang their strange duet in mournful unison. Then one
of them ceased singing, held his stick perpendicularly, and stood as
though rooted to the spot; while the other walked on slowly and gravely
by the side of the hedge, singing in high nasal tones, and unwinding the
thread as he went, in such a manner as to keep it straight and tight.
After having gone about thirty paces, he stood still and silent. The
other, meanwhile, began to advance toward him, singing in his turn, and
winding up the thread, so that the ball on the one stick grew larger and
larger, while that on the other stick grew smaller. Thus there were
alternately one duet and two solos.
This is called "measuring the boundaries;" and although it is only done
after this fashion in some of the Podolian cemeteries, it is yet done in
some way or other wherever the Jews are to be found. On the anniversary
of the day on which a near and dear relation has deceased, it is the
custom to measure the borders of the burial-ground in which he rests
with a thread, that is afterward used for some pious purpose, such as to
form the wick of candles offered in sacrifice, or to sew a
prayer-mantle. The custom is the outcome of a sad gloomy symbolism, but
it would take up too much room were I to attempt to explain it.
I watched the men for a time, and then went up to them, and asked whose
was the grave that had interested me.
They looked at me mistrustfully.
"Why do you ask?" one of them at length answered, with hesitation.
"Because I want to know."
"And why do you want to know?"
A direct answer would have been too long, so I made him an indirect and
shorter reply.
One of the two worthy but extremely dirty old men--so dirty that one
looked at them in wonder--had a very red nose--a circumstance from which
one might infer that he was subject to constant thirst, and was of a
cheerful disposition. It is always easy to make one's self understood by
a person of that kind.
I looked at the man smilingly, as though he were an old friend, and at
the same time put my hand in my pocket.... "Well--who is it?" I asked.
He watched my movements with visible interest, but did not give way as
yet.
"Isn't the name engraved upon the stone?" he inquired.
"I should not have asked you what it was if it had been there."
"Why isn't it there?"
My hand came out of my pocket, but the old man was not yet gained over.
"Why?" he repeated; "because it is a sin even to think of the name of
her who lies there! Why should I sin by telling you what it is? why
should you sin by listening to it? why should Reb Nathan here sin by
listening to us both?"
"Money spent on the poor will wash out the sin," I replied calmly,
pressing something into the old man's hand.
But the venerable gentleman was evidently very particular about any
matter that might affect the salvation of his soul, so he counted the
silver I had given him in a whisper, as if to make sure that I had given
him enough. His face now expressed satisfaction; but Reb Nathan, in his
turn, began to feel uneasy. He might easily have gone away, and so
escaped the sin of listening; but instead of that, he chose another
course of action, although he had not a red nose.
When these preliminaries were all settled, the first said, "Whose grave
is that?" and the other answered, "Lea Rendar's." Which, being
interpreted, means, "Lea, the daughter of the innkeeper, lies there."
But I still looked inquiringly at the two men.
"Every one knew her!" they exclaimed, in astonishment. "Lea of the
yellow Karezma (inn); the wife of Long Ruben, who lives near the
town-hall; Lea with the long hair."
I knew now whom they meant, and my curiosity was turned into an anxious
interest.
"What! she was a sinner?" I cried, in amazement.
"Was she a sinner?" exclaimed Reb Abraham, the red-nosed man. "Could
there have been a greater than she? No: there never was a greater! She
trod the law under her feet! And who will be damned for it? She and her
husband--Ruben of the town-hall! For had he not permitted it, the
transgression had never been perpetrated."
"Another person will also be damned for her sin," cried Reb
Nathan--"Gawriel Rendar, her father; for if he had brought her up
differently, she would never have committed such a trespass against the
law."
"Ah, yes, of course," assented Abraham. Then, seized with a sudden
revulsion of feeling, he pitied the man in whose house his nose had
gained its rosy hue, and added more gently: "Perhaps the Almighty may
forgive Gawriel after all. How could the poor father ever have guessed
that she would do such a horrible thing? None of Jewish birth could ever
have thought it! But as for Ruben--that's different; he is certainly
condemned!"
"Was the crime really so terrible?"
"Terrible, did you say?--most abominable! Didn't you hear of it? An
extraordinary story!--a most remarkable and unheard-of story!"
They then told me this "remarkable and unheard-of story." And truly it
deserved the adjectives they applied to it, although in a different
sense from that in which they used them.
I can hardly describe my feelings as I write down what I then heard. In
the first place, the whole affair sounds so incredible. Only those few
people in the West who have a slight knowledge of this ignorant
fanatical Eastern Judaism, will be able to comprehend that such things
can really be. All others will shake their heads. I can only say that it
is a true story; I did not invent it: it really took place. Besides
that, the story is a very sad one. It fills one with sorrow when one
thinks of it....
Lea was a very lovely girl. She did not inherit her beauty from either
of her parents; for her mother was a dumpy, little red-faced woman, and
Gawriel Rendar, landlord of the large yellow inn on the way to Old
Barnow, was an awkward giant with a muddy complexion, and a face much
pitted with small-pox. The two sons, who hung about the house, were by
no means ornamental members of society. In short, they were a
rascally-looking lot, and their chief occupation was to provide bad
spirits for the thirsty, and fling those who had imbibed too much of the
villainous compound they sold out-of-doors in a rough-and-ready manner.
It was in this house and among these people that the loveliest, merriest
child grew up into a gentle modest girl. Lea Bergheimer was more like a
sunbeam than any one I ever knew.
Her head was crowned with a wealth of shining golden hair. A Jewess is
seldom fair; and when she happens to be so, is, as a general rule,
anything but good-looking. The beautiful women of this race have either
brown or black hair. But Lea was an exception. Indeed, she was not at
all of the Jewish type except in her slender, upright, graceful figure.
Her face was of the highest Germanic type: small, delicate features,
rosy cheeks, and deep violet eyes. The expression of her face was bright
and intelligent. There is a seventeenth-century picture in one of the
side rooms of the Belvedere at Vienna of a Viennese burgher maiden
painted by an Italian. The original was a German girl, but the artist
has given her face the impress of the "spirit, fire, and dew" that
animate so many Southern natures. That picture might have been a
portrait of Lea, the resemblance to her was so strong.
The darkest place may be lighted by a sunbeam; so pretty Lea brought
light and joy into the noisy inn. It is scarcely necessary to say how
devoted her parents and brothers were to her, and how in their awkward
way they delighted to do her honor, watching over her and anticipating
her slightest wish in the most touching way. Old Gawriel was well-to-do
in the world, for his spirit-shop stood in a central place, and no
landlord in Podolia understood better than he the art of watering
schnapps, and of doubling the chalked score of any one who went upon
tick. But he spent so much upon Lea, that it was really wonderful that
he was able to lay by anything. He did not have the girl educated--she
learned nothing but what Jewish women in Eastern Europe are taught; but
he used to dress her on week-days as rich men did not dress their
daughters on New-Year's day.