The _Rebbetzin_! The word brings a wealth of pictures before my mind. I
see my good mother living quietly, modestly, in the little town in which
my father of blessed memory was rabbi. When he died--it was just when I
was taking the state examination--I wanted to persuade her to move with
me to Berlin. She would not. "Here I am at home, here is the grave of
my husband of blessed memory, here are the graves of my dear parents and
of my brothers and sisters; here lie your two sisters, who died
young--here is my world. Everybody knows me, and I know everybody. What
should I do in Berlin among nothing but strangers? I would worry and
never feel at ease, and I would only hinder you in your profession.
Leave me where I am. Old trees should not be transplanted. And here I
can live decently on what I have. In the big city, where living is high,
it wouldn't hold out. If only you will write often to me, and visit me
every year, I shall have a happy, blessed old age."
This is the arrangement I have kept up, and hope to keep up many more
years. My dear little mother is well and robust; and in the modest
corner she has fitted up for herself, dwell genuine peace and true
humility. Humility! That is not exactly the characteristic mark of a
Rebbetzin. The real Rebbetzin, the one who is exactly what a Rebbetzin
should be, is proud and conscious of her dignity. The more modest and
simple the Rav, the haughtier and more exigent the Rebbetzin.
"And that's altogether natural," said Simon Eichelkatz to me to-day.
"The Jews like to lead the people they employ a dance, and they are
hard-hearted and domineering toward the weak and the dependent."
This is an unexplained trait in the soul of the Jewish race. Possibly,
it is due to the fact that they are often contentious and want the last
word in an argument. And then comes a man, fine, tranquil, peace-loving,
thoughtful, as were most of the rabbis, especially in those days, fifty
years ago, and immediately the spirit of contradiction stirs in the
people; and the more they love and respect their rabbi, the more they
worry and pester him. Everything in which they themselves are
lacking--Talmudic learning, knowledge and culture, goodness, modesty,
and self-effacement, the utmost piety and self-sacrifice--all this they
demand of him.
"In a way he was to take upon himself all the _Tzores_ and wickedness
and stupidity of the _Baale-Batim_," continued Simon Eichelkatz, "and
the more aggressions they allowed themselves, the more virtue they
expected of him. A wonder! _Nu_, Dr. Merzbach held up his end, and
really atoned for the sins of the 'black' Khille."
At that time conditions were probably similar to these in all places in
which rabbis of modern culture and academic training began to carry
light and truth to the minds of the Jews, who through the persecutions
and oppressions under which they had so long languished had become
distrustful, secretive, cowardly, and embittered. It was no slight task.
And many a rabbi, weak and faint-hearted, wrecked himself in the
attempt. In that case, it was a piece of good fortune if the Rebbetzin
saw to it that her husband did not suffer all that was put upon him, if
she stood shoulder to shoulder with him, protecting, guarding him,
warding off what foolishness, ill-nature, and tyrannical whims hatched
against him. Usually the relation was this: the Rav they loved but
vexed, the Rebbetzin they hated but feared. A certain equilibrium was
thus maintained.
"And our Rebbetzin, Frau Dr. Merzbach, _she_ was their match!" cried
Simon Eichelkatz. "She was proud, and she looked down on the members of
the congregation almost disdainfully. They couldn't hold a candle to her
so far as family and position went; for she was the daughter of one of
the best and most prominent families; and the piety and learning of her
father and grandfather were known in all Israel. How could anyone in the
Khille compare with her in breeding and birth?"
Simon Eichelkatz went on to tell me how these tradesmen and business men
seemed like vassals to her. That was how she had been used to see the
members of the congregation approach her father in his house; and she
knew that was how they had approached her grandfather, with the deepest
respect and devotion. And so the free way in which the people dared meet
her husband, this forwardness and familiarity, wounded her beyond
measure. And fearless and self-confident as she was, she made no secret
of her feelings. This gave rise to eternal jarring; and again and again
the Rav tried to reconcile her to the situation. But though she revered
her husband as a saint and loved him with the self-surrender and
faithfulness of a Jewish wife, she would not abandon her ground. Perhaps
just because she loved him. She unconsciously felt that one could not
get around the "rabble" merely with benevolence and mildness; firmness
and haughtiness were also necessary in dealing with them. It is not
unlikely that Dr. Merzbach could not have fought the fight to the finish
if it had not been for his courageous wife. Certain it is that she kept
many a slight from him, many an ill-natured offense. They all took care
to let her alone; and when Frau Dr. Merzbach walked along the Ring, many
a one slunk off around the corner, because his conscience pricked him on
account of some gossip, some intrigue, or some petty persecution--these
were the weapons with which the "Saints" agitated against the noble man.
With his beautiful nature, he was no match for them, but they trembled
before the Rebbetzin.
"And believe me, Herr Kreisphysikus," Simon Eichelkatz commented, "she
was right; nothing else was left for her to do. That was the only way to
get the better of that lying pack of hypocrites. If they hadn't been
afraid of her, they would have fought even harder against the man who
wanted to bring them the blessings of a regulated, proper life. They
prepared enough bitterness for him, and he would probably have gotten
tired and discouraged, gone to pieces sometimes, if his life in his own
home had not weighed in the balance against the lowness of the Khille.
"And that's where the Rebbetzin was remarkable. She was just as clever
as she was proud; and even her hottest opponents--and not all of them
were of the Orthodox; some of the 'gentry' were envious of her and
fought her--well, even her hottest opponents admitted that she was
intelligent, and knew how to tackle things, that she tried to acquire
modern culture, and that she gathered the better elements in the
congregation about her. And her house was gay and refined, people felt
at home there. Nowhere did one pass one's time so well as at Dr.
Merzbach's."
The rabbi's house on his Friday evenings became a centre for the
cultivated people, the people who held high places in the intellectual
world of the congregation and the city. Christians, too, entered the
circle.
"You can imagine, Herr Doktor, what bad blood that made. But the
Rebbetzin didn't concern herself about it, and nobody could get a hold
on her, because no fault could be found with her piety. Many said she
was more orthodox than the Rav. There was some truth in this. He, being
a great Talmudist, might find some freer interpretation of the laws, he
might open up new ways, while she stuck fast to what had been sacred to
her in her grandfather's and her father's home. I remember how he once
came to my office on a very hot day, and took his hat off, and wiped his
forehead, and then sat there without anything on his head, when suddenly
his wife appeared outside in the store. He snatched up his hat, smiling
in an embarrassed way, and said: 'God forbid my wife should see me
sitting here without my cap.'"
Such trivialities and externalities invested her with glamour. Besides,
there was her great philanthropy and her public work. Not a charitable
institution belonging to the city or the congregation but that she was
at the head of it. And outwardly cold and reserved, always carrying
herself with great dignity, she still would willingly sacrifice herself
in a good cause.
"During the cholera epidemic," continued Simon Eichelkatz, "I saw her at
sick-beds, and I know what a heart she had, for all her fine intellect.
But the others came no nearer to her, because they judged her according
to her understanding alone, and that often made her appear hard and
cold. But she didn't bother about things of that sort. She did not even
have the wish to come nearer to those people; they seemed rude and
uncultivated to her, and she was not in sympathy with them. Dr. Merzbach
sometimes tried to make her change her opinion, but that was the point
on which she would not yield, perhaps she couldn't. This was probably
the one dark cloud on their blessed union, and it was a union that
lasted through forty-three years of perfect agreement, of the purest
and highest joy, of the greatest contentment.
"The Rebbetzin felt at home only in her own house; to the Khille she
always remained a stranger. And do you know, Herr Kreisphysikus, when I
come to think about it, I believe the Rebbetzin is always a stranger in
the congregation? She can't fit herself in."
I had to smile. I thought of my mother, who was so different. But, to be
sure, times have changed, and manners with them. And then the narrow
little community in which my father worked, among friendly, kindly men
and women! The "Rebbetzin" is probably a phenomenon belonging to a past
epoch.
_September 30._
Autumn is now completely upon us. Raw, gloomy, chilly, with everlasting
rains. The city is not beautiful in this garb, and I would certainly
succumb to my tendency to melancholy, if I did not have my profession
and--Simon Eichelkatz.
He speaks about every possible thing. Only when the talk takes a
personal turn, touching upon incidents in his life, he becomes
monosyllabic and reserved. Consequently, I really know very little about
him. With the exception of the hints once thrown out by Feiwel
Silbermann about his "baptized" son Friedrich Eichner, I have learned
nothing about him. It goes against me to question a servant, but I feel
sure something lurks behind the sharp, ironic manner in which Feiwel on
every occasion says "the gracious Madame Eichelkatz." Clearly, Madame
Eichelkatz did not suit his taste. And I learn nothing from the people,
either. I have not yet left my card with "the first Jewish families" of
the congregation, and so I have not yet established any connections. But
I really want to very soon. At present I feel more at home among the
dead members of this congregation, all of whom, I hope, Simon
Eichelkatz will by and by bring to life for me.
This world that has sunk into the past stirs my imagination, and I take
deep interest in the figures that glided through the narrow streets
fifty years ago. What constituted incidents in this world, what occupied
these men, how they lived, loved, and hated--all this has a certain
historic charm for me, heightened on account of my racial bias.
Yesterday Simon Eichelkatz promised to tell me all sorts of things
during the fall and winter. I wonder whether I shouldn't wait a little
while before I present my visiting cards. When once you begin, there are
invitations and social obligations from which you cannot withdraw--and
then there would be an end to the long talks with Simon. And I must
carefully consider whether I am likely to laugh so heartily in the
"aesthetic _salons_" of the fine Jewish houses as I did yesterday, when
Simon told me the story of Teacher Sandberg. Scarcely! The young ladies
would undoubtedly find the affair "shocking." But I want to record it
here, and I will call it "The Adventure of Teacher Sandberg."
It was on the hottest and longest of Jewish fast days, _Shivoh oser
be-Tamuz_. The sun glared down pitilessly. Not a breath of air to
freshen, to quicken the heavy atmosphere. The Khille began the "three
weeks" with a full fast day, on which the faithful partook neither of
meat nor drink. The male members of the congregation strictly observed
the customs, although to be pious was especially hard on this day in
midsummer, when daylight continues endlessly. The length of the fast has
become a byword, and a very tall man is said "to be as long as Shivoh
oser be-Tamuz." But neither heat nor length prevented the faithful from
keeping the fast recalling the destruction of the sanctuary on Zion. And
so the congregation made itself penitential; it fasted, prayed,
perspired, groaned, and denied itself every refreshment. The people
crawled into the shadow of the houses to escape the heat and the
tormenting thirst it caused. In vain! The awful sultriness penetrated
everywhere, and brooded over the streets and dwellings, over field and
meadow. The fasting men endured it with a certain apathy--after all,
they were used to it; it repeated itself every year, and no one could
remember that Shivoh oser be-Tamuz had ever fallen on a cool day. It
couldn't be otherwise--in midsummer, the season of ripening fruits, of
the harvest. You just had to accept the situation, and, in addition to
the tortures of hunger and thirst, suffer those of heat as well. But on
Shivoh oser be-Tamuz in 1853 a great fright came to swell the list of
agonies in the Khille at Reissnitz.
Toward noon the report spread that the teacher Sandberg was missing. He
had been seen in Shul at the morning service, and from there he had
gone home, but after that he could not be traced further. Two boys who
had been playing "cat" that morning in the street, declared they had
seen him in front of his house, and then had noticed him go around the
corner along the street leading to the so-called "Behnisch" meadows.
That was the last that could be found out about Teacher Sandberg.
According to Simon Eichelkatz's description, he was a most singular
individual. Extremely tall, and thin as a broom-stick, with a peculiar
gait, rather pushing and scraping himself along the ground than walking.
Summer and winter he wore a black silk cloth about his neck, above which
showed only a very narrow line of white. His head was usually inclined
to the left side in talking, and his whole face was cast into shadow by
his large, beaked nose, ugly beyond belief. This nose of his was the
butt of his pupils, the alphabet class of the congregational school.
Sometimes it was a cause of terror to them as well, especially to the
new pupils, who always needed some time to grow accustomed to it. But
that happened as soon as Teacher Sandberg looked at them with his
good-humored eyes, often gleaming with gayety, which allayed the fright
produced by the uglier organ. In fact, it was the eloquence of his eyes
that made the teacher a general favorite. Everyone liked the odd fellow;
and from many a shop and window, sympathetic glances followed his figure
as, with hands in his trouser pockets, he slouched along to school. One
can therefore imagine the amazement caused by the news of his
disappearance. Inquiry was made for him in the houses of neighboring
families, the synagogue yard was searched,--perhaps he had taken refuge
there from the heat,--every nook and cranny of his house, including the
shop and cellar, were carefully investigated, the absurdest surmises as
to his whereabouts were set afloat. Was he in some saloon? Impossible,
on this fast day! His wife cried and sobbed, his children bawled--her
husband, their father--where was he? Gone! As if swallowed by an
earthquake! Not a single clue as to where he had disappeared. Some of
the people, his weeping wife at their head, went to the "Behnisch"
meadows. But he was not there; nor had he been seen by the harvesters
taking their midday rest on the fresh stacks of hay. And why should he
be there, in the maddening heat of high noon, hungry and thirsty from
his fast? The mystery remained unsolved and began to assume a more and
more terrifying aspect. What had driven him from his room? Whither had
he wandered? Soon the word "accident" was anxiously whispered from mouth
to mouth. But what could the nature of the accident be? In awe-stricken
tones they hinted at murder! Suicide! God forbid that such suppositions
should reach the ears of the wife and children! Crowds gathered in the
White Suburb. They looked up and down the Gass, they glanced at the
windows of Teacher Sandberg's house; they questioned one another, they
propounded all sorts of theories, they debated and took counsel--Teacher
Sandberg remained in the land of the unknown.
All forgot hunger and thirst, no one remembered that he was mortifying
his flesh. What signifies so slight a sacrifice as compared with the
awful fate that had befallen Teacher Sandberg? Fear and pity crept over
the spirits of the people. What had happened? All the inhabitants of the
city joined in the hunt with the relatives and co-religionists of the
lost man. The whole little world was up and doing, excited, amazed,
searching--and still Teacher Sandberg remained in the land of the
unknown.
At two in the afternoon the rumor had spread from the White Suburb to
the Ring, and penetrated into the quiet study of the rabbi. He
immediately hurried to Teacher Sandberg's home, accompanied by the
president, Herr Manasse, and the chairman of the board, Herr
Karfunkelstein. He was also joined by all the other men in the
congregation, by many women and children; and all streamed to the place
excited and terrified, to get news of Teacher Sandberg's fate. The crowd
in front of the unfortunate man's house was now so great that even the
highly respected police also repaired thither; now all the citizens had
assembled, and they talked with bated breath of the "unheard-of case."
The rabbi and the president went inside the house to get the details
again from the wife. The crowd waited outside expectantly. The rays of
the midday sun beat down mercilessly. But no one thought of heat,
hunger, or thirst. Everyone was occupied with Teacher Sandberg alone.
"Sandberg had to choose exactly Shivoh oser be-Tamuz to get lost on,"
said little Freund, the dealer in smoked meats. "He himself is as long
as Shivoh oser be-Tamuz, and he had to have a misfortune just on the
fast day."
"Just as if you were to put a fur coat on in this heat," said another
man.
"No jokes," warned a third; "it's a sad business."
At that moment a man pushed his way through the crowd, breathless,
gasping, in the greatest excitement. He was carrying a bag in which
something swayed back and forth. The people looked at him with horror on
their faces, and made way for him, carefully avoiding contact with the
sack.
"Do you think it can be Sandberg's head that he's dragging in the bag?"
The little dealer in smoked meat put the question anxiously.
"You can't tell!" answered his neighbor.
The man with the sack stepped into the passage way of the house, and the
universal gaze was fastened with terrified curiosity upon the entrance.
Minutes of the greatest expectation! That shuddering sense of
oppression which precedes some dreadful occurrence had taken hold of
all present. Not a single remark was passed, no sound was heard; the
next moment was awaited in sheer breathless tension. A heavy weight
rested on their spirits, the atmosphere was leaden, as before a storm;
and yet the blue of the heavens was undimmed, not a single cloud flecked
the horizon, and the sun's rays flamed with the heat of midsummer. So it
was from a clear sky that a thunderbolt was to strike the expectant
throng, and now--the rabbi came out to the top of the steps leading from
the passage-way down to the street, on each side of him one of the
directors, and behind him, in the open doorway, the man with the bag,
now hanging over his shoulder empty. From within came sounds of
mourning, crying, and sobbing. Expectation had reached its height, and
the voice of Dr. Merzbach rang out through absolute quiet, as he said
with deep seriousness:
"Beloved congregation! It has pleased the Almighty Father to let a sad
and awful event occur in our midst on this fast day. Our highly
respected teacher, Sandberg, whom we all know and love, the guide and
instructor of our children, has met with a misfortune, a fact no longer
permitting of doubt, since this man, a miller's apprentice from the
Garetzki mill, found a pair of boots near the dam, and a red woolen
handkerchief, which Frau Sandberg recognizes as unmistakably belonging
to her husband. The miller met some hay-makers and learned from them
that search was being made in the city for a lost man, and he came here
immediately with the articles he had found. There can no longer be doubt
as to the terrible truth, and we must bear with resignation the severe
stroke the Lord has sent down upon the unfortunate family, so rudely
robbed of its support and protection, and upon the community at large.
On a day of atonement and repentance God has inflicted so hard a trial
upon us."
At these words the people began to lament and weep. "_Waigeschrieen!_
God cares nothing for our repentance!" some exclaimed, while others hit
their breasts and cried: "_Oshamnu, bogadnu_...."
With great difficulty the rabbi succeeded in allaying the excitement.
"Be sensible; keep quiet; we must see if it isn't possible still to help
the unfortunate man, or at least we must find his corpse."
The words had an uncanny ring. A dark shadow seemed to creep over the
bright day, the brilliant sunshine.
"It will be necessary for us to divide into bands to examine the banks
of the stream from the mill-dam as far as the large sluice gate at the
miner's dam. The water is shallow because of the drought of the past
days, so there is still hope that some trace of him may be discovered.
It would be well to take along a few persons who know how to swim, and
provide others with poles. Our president will also see to it that the
police help us in our search, and he will ask Garetzki, the proprietor
of the mill, to let the water at the dam run off."
These directions, thoughtfully and quietly given, did not fail of their
effect. Search parties were formed on the instant by Herr Moritz
Liepmann, and sent in various directions. As they went toward the river,
the wit of the Khille, Reb Shmul Eisner, even at that critical moment
could not repress the remark: "The idea of making _Tashlich_ on Shivoh
oser be-Tamuz."
Many Christians in the city joined the expedition, and the people
sallied forth in the parching heat to hunt for Teacher Sandberg. The
rabbi and the two trustees accompanied the crowd as far as the meadows
bordering on the stream, and here a small posse branched off to go along
the mill-race, to carry on the search along the tributary stream as
well. Then Dr. Merzbach and his companions went to the meeting-room of
the congregation in order to receive word there of the results of the
investigation. Up and down the river went the people looking for Teacher
Sandberg in the shallow spots. In vain! With the exception of a few
irregular foot-prints in the moist soil near the mill-dam, nothing of
note was discovered. Even the foot-prints were not of much significance,
since they disappeared a short distance beyond the slope. Teacher
Sandberg had completely disappeared. But one supposition was possible,
that he had met with an accident. Probably in the glowing heat he had
used the handkerchief to wipe away the perspiration, and had taken off
his boots to cool his feet in the water, and in doing so had stepped
into a deep spot, or overcome in the water by the heat, he had fainted,
and drowned. A hundred guesses were made. But what remained the least
explicable part of the mystery was why the teacher had gone out at all
in the heat of high noon. In the meantime the day wore on. Hour after
hour passed by. The searchers returned home dead-tired, hungry, and
thirsty. In their zeal they had forgotten they were fasting; but at last
the needs of the body asserted themselves. One by one they returned to
the city. Each brought back the report of their vain endeavors; and when
the last came back shortly before sunset, everybody was sure that
Teacher Sandberg was no longer among the living. The rabbi once more
went to Frau Sandberg to speak words of comfort to her and her children,
and then the fateful day neared its end. There was scarcely a _Minyan_
present at the evening services in the Shul. Pretty nearly every one
remained at home with his family, doubly alive to the blessing of life
in the face of this enigmatic death, and relishing the breaking of the
fast with heightened appetite. For not a soul had lived through a fast
day such as this before. When late in the evening the full moon hung
above the houses, casting its white light on the open square and the
streets, and the evening coolness had freshened the sultry air of the
day, the people's spirits were re-animated, and they came out of their
narrow dwellings into the open. All thronged to the Ring, the market
place.
They felt the need of talking over the day's event. Before their doors
sat the fathers of families, on green-painted benches, smoking their
pipes, and discussing all the circumstances of the case. The women
collected in groups, sympathizing with Frau Sandberg and breaking their
heads over the problem as to what she would do, nebbich, now she was
robbed of her supporter. The young people promenaded up and down,
chatted in an undertone, and tried to be serious, in accord with the
gravity of the situation, though they did not always succeed in
banishing their youthful spirits. On the corner of Tarnowitzer Street
stood Reb Shmul Eisner, the wit of the congregation. Half aloud he said
to his neighbor: "Everybody is certainly happy not to be so famous as
Teacher Sandberg is to-day."
The rabbi also came to the Ring, and with him the Rebbetzin. He wanted
to go once again to the wife of the unfortunate man, and the Rebbetzin
would not absent herself from a place where help and comfort were
needed. Near the great fountain, called the _Kashte_, next to the city
hall, the rabbi was detained by some members of his congregation.
Everyone was eager to hear something about the day's happenings directly
from his mouth. At the same time the mayor and two aldermen came down
the steps of the city hall. When they noticed Dr. Merzbach, they went up
to him to tell him that it had just been decided to let the water off at
the dam early the next morning, through the large sluice, in order, if
possible, to recover the corpse of Teacher Sandberg; for it was not
likely that with the water so shallow, the body had been carried down
stream; it had probably been caught somewhere in the canal. A shudder
ran through the crowd. Those standing near the mayor listened to what he
said with bated breath and passed on his words to their neighbors. Like
wildfire it spread through the crowd: "To-morrow they'll recover the
body of Teacher Sandberg." From the Kashte rose the primitive figure of
a Neptune, trident in hand; and the silver moonlight gleamed on the
large fountain and the listening throngs about it.
"To-morrow they'll recover the body of Teacher Sandberg."
All of a sudden a shrill cry rang out and was echoed by the mass of
human beings, stirred to the highest pitch of excitement. Horror-struck
they scattered in confusion and took to their heels, only now and then
looking back fearsomely at a gruesome vision which presented itself to
their sight. In one second the Ring was vacated, every one had hidden in
the houses. There--slowly and meditatively, like a ghost, Teacher
Sandberg stalked across the square, in the garb in which the good Lord
had created him. He was absolutely naked, not a shred of clothing upon
him; his hands at his legs, as though in his usual fashion he were
hiding them in trouser pockets, his feet scraping along the ground.
The Ring looked as though it had been swept. Only the rabbi, the two
trustees, the mayor, the aldermen, and the Rebbetzin remained at the
Kashte. The Rebbetzin, when the singular figure approached, faced about
in confusion and eagerly contemplated the Neptune, who, although a river
god, wore much more clothing than Teacher Sandberg. The moonlight
glistened on the trident and bathed the entire tragi-comic scene in its
pale light. The teacher shuffled close up to the gentlemen, who regarded
him with glances of astonishment mixed with disapproval. Was this object
Sandberg or his ghost? How could he be wandering about through the city
across the Ring past all these people in so scanty a costume? The thing
was unheard of; the like of it had never been seen. Presumably the man
was dead, and here he was strolling about--and in what a state!
Some of the bolder spirits crept out of their houses again, and here and
there a curious face bobbed up behind the window panes. The situation
was tense. The Rebbetzin still had her back turned to the group; and the
Neptune looked very shy, as if to say: "We barbarians are better people
after all; none of us would dare saunter about the Ring in bright
moonlight without a shred of clothing on."
Finally the rabbi recovered enough self-possession to address the man
standing before him in the garb in which the Lord had fashioned him.
"Is that you, Sandberg?" he asked in a tone of mingled severity and
mildness.
"Yes, Herr Rabbiner, it's I," came the plaintive reply.
"Your wife, your children, the congregation, the city, all are mourning
you as dead."
"God forbid!" the teacher exclaimed. "Why should I be dead? I am alive,
Herr Rabbiner, praised be God, even if something very disagreeable did
happen to me."
"He will catch cold, if he doesn't look out." Shmul Eisner, who had come
up in the meantime, tossed the joke to another bystander. But no one
thought of offering the naked man a bit of clothing. The amazement was
still too great. So the audience was continued, and Teacher Sandberg, in
the primitive garb in which he was, related his adventure before a
college of judges consisting of the rabbinate and the municipal
authorities.
In the morning he had gone to take a bath, and had undressed behind some
bushes at the edge of the stream near the Petershof dam, where not a
soul passes at that hour of the day. He dived into the refreshing
depths. The water was delicious. Forgotten the torturing heat, forgotten
the hunger and thirst of the fast day! He struck off down stream and let
himself be carried along by the soft waves, gently warmed and brightened
by the sun. After half an hour, possibly longer, he swam back to the
spot where he had undressed--but horror of horrors! his clothes had
disappeared. Not a thing had been left behind, not even a shirt to cover
his body. Utterly distraught, he ran up and down the bank, hunting for
his clothes, calling, crying out, imploring, beseeching help from
somewhere. Nothing stirred. Had someone played a trick on him? Had
tramps passed by and taken the clothes along as profitable booty? He was
absolutely ignorant of how the thing had happened. But one thing was
clear; he must hide himself until night, and then find some way of
creeping home. He reckoned on the probability that the people, tired
out by the fast, would go to bed earlier than usual. So, resigned and
thoroughly worn out by the excitement of the fearful adventure, he slid
into a field of corn in full ear, ripe for harvesting, and crawled way
into its depths to hide himself completely. He dropped down exhausted;
the corn-stalks waved high over his head, the crickets chirped, the
ragged robins and wild poppies nodded about him. He again began to
meditate upon his peculiar position. What happened after that he could
not remember. He must have fallen into a deep sleep, and so failed to
hear the call of the search parties. When he awoke, the moon was high in
the heavens. He did not know what time it was; but he supposed it must
be late at night, for he was chilled to the marrow, and dew lay upon the
field from which he emerged. Then he wended his way homeward, through
the meadows wrapt in solitude and nocturnal quiet. With beating heart he
slipped past the houses along the deserted streets. It was like a city
of the dead. He thought it must be long past midnight, that everybody
was buried in sleep. It could not occur to him that the people, because
of his disappearance, had congregated at the Ring. Emboldened by the
quiet, he stepped along at a livelier pace, and even calculated that by
crossing the Ring and going down Rybniker Street he could reach his home
sooner. He was not in the least afraid of meeting anyone at that time
except the nightwatch, to whom he could easily explain his plight. So he
came through a narrow side street, which ran from the Flour Market and
opened right on the Ring and landed--where his appearance was welcomed
as a ghost by the excited crowd. And now he was standing before the
gentlemen, and he could not have done otherwise, so help him God--Amen!
His savior in need was the Rebbetzin. With averted face she listened to
the half-comic, half-pitiful narrative, and suddenly she let her large
black mantilla fall to the ground behind her. Shmul Eisner, who noticed
the act, and immediately perceived its purpose, sprang forward, picked
up the shawl, and hung it about the teacher's trembling limbs. Then,
draped in the Rebbetzin's black mantilla, the teacher was led to the
shelter of his home, to wife and child.
"Won't Frau Teacher Sandberg be jealous, though," exclaimed Reb Shmul,
the joker, "when she sees him coming home with nothing on but the
mantilla of the Rebbetzin."
"The chief thing is, he is here," replied his companion. And that is
what the whole congregation thought, when it sought its well-deserved
rest.