I
"I have a Passover guest for you, Reb Yoneh, such a guest as you never
had since you became a householder."
"What sort is he?"
"A real Oriental citron!"
"What does that mean?"
"It means a 'silken Jew,' a personage of distinction. The only thing
against him is--he doesn't speak our language."
"What does he speak, then?"
"Hebrew."
"Is he from Jerusalem?"
"I don't know where he comes from, but his words are full of a's."
Such was the conversation that took place between my father and the
beadle, a day before Passover, and I was wild with curiosity to see the
"guest" who didn't understand Yiddish, and who talked with a's. I had
already noticed, in synagogue, a strange-looking individual, in a fur
cap, and a Turkish robe striped blue, red, and yellow. We boys crowded
round him on all sides, and stared, and then caught it hot from the
beadle, who said children had no business "to creep into a stranger's
face" like that. Prayers over, everyone greeted the stranger, and wished
him a happy Passover, and he, with a sweet smile on his red cheeks set
in a round grey beard, replied to each one, "Shalom! Shalom!" instead of
our Sholom. This "Shalom! Shalom!" of his sent us boys into fits of
laughter. The beadle grew very angry, and pursued us with slaps. We
eluded him, and stole deviously back to the stranger, listened to his
"Shalom! Shalom!" exploded with laughter, and escaped anew from the
hands of the beadle.
I am puffed up with pride as I follow my father and his guest to our
house, and feel how all my comrades envy me. They stand looking after
us, and every now and then I turn my head, and put out my tongue at
them. The walk home is silent. When we arrive, my father greets my
mother with "a happy Passover!" and the guest nods his head so that his
fur cap shakes. "Shalom! Shalom!" he says. I think of my comrades, and
hide my head under the table, not to burst out laughing. But I shoot
continual glances at the guest, and his appearance pleases me; I like
his Turkish robe, striped yellow, red, and blue, his fresh, red cheeks
set in a curly grey beard, his beautiful black eyes that look out so
pleasantly from beneath his bushy eyebrows. And I see that my father is
pleased with him, too, that he is delighted with him. My mother looks at
him as though he were something more than a man, and no one speaks to
him but my father, who offers him the cushioned reclining-seat at table.
Mother is taken up with the preparations for the Passover meal, and
Rikel the maid is helping her. It is only when the time comes for saying
Kiddush that my father and the guest hold a Hebrew conversation. I am
proud to find that I understand nearly every word of it. Here it is in
full.