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[Illustration:
THE VILLAGE
_Frontispiece_]
FROM THE HEART OF ISRAEL
Jewish Tales and Types
[Illustration]
by
BERNARD DRACHMAN
Illustrated by A. Warshawsky
New York
James Pott & Company
1905
Copyright, 1905
by Bernard Drachman
CONTENTS.
PAGE
APOLOGIA PRO LIBRO SUO, v
THE VILLAGE KEHILLAH, 1
Nordheim, 1
Schnorrers, 28
Gendarmes, 37
Reb Shemayah and other Nordheim Worthies, 49
THE LITTLE HORSERADISH WOMAN, 84
THE GENERAL, 95
TOO LATE, BUT ON TIME, 128
THE PROSELYTE OF RIGHTEOUSNESS, 142
ISAAC AND ALICE, 168
THE SCISSORS-GRINDER, 186
THE SHLEMIHL, 211
A VICTIM OF PREJUDICE, 244
THE RABBI’S GAME OF CARDS, 268
GLOSSARY OF HEBREW AND OTHER NON-ENGLISH TERMS 291
APOLOGIA PRO LIBRO SUO
“Is Saul also among the prophets?” With my mental ear I hear thus
exclaim those in whose view the teller of tales stands immeasurably
higher than the rabbi, minister, preacher, scholar, or whatever else may
be called he whose vocation it is to disseminate Hebrew religion and
wisdom, when they see that one of the latter class has dared to intrude
among those who take fiction as their exclusive and legitimate field,
and has also ventured before the public with a book of tales. “What
would the priest in the house of graves (cemetery)?” I hear, on the
other hand, indignantly ask those who deem the wisdom of the Torah alone
worthy of attention, and who think it degradation and sin to turn away
even for a moment from the study and the teaching of Holy Writ and the
words of the sages to waste time with the telling of empty tales. Both
agree in their application to the present case of the Latin and English
proverb “_Ne sutor ultra crepidam_” (“Let the shoemaker stick to his
last”); and that they are not right is not for the one who is
responsible for the present effort to say, but must be left to the
decision of an impartial public, which will not fail to tell truthfully
whether it has found aught of pleasure or profit in the stories of
Jewish life hereinafter contained. But it may be permitted to the writer
to say that, in his humble opinion, both of the criticisms quoted above
are based on erroneous conceptions. The telling of tales is neither
independent of nor contradictory to the Torah; that is to say, it may be
a most excellent method of inculcating pure and noble lessons, and has
always been used for such purpose by the great teachers in Israel.
Indeed, the putting before the world of truthful pictures of Jewish life
is in itself a good and useful work. It is extraordinary, considering
that the Jews have lived in the midst of all civilized peoples for
almost twenty centuries, what ignorance concerning the teachings of
their religion and their characteristics as a people still prevails.
They have sojourned in the midst of mankind and have wandered from land
to land, stamped everywhere with the seal of mystery, looked upon by all
not of their creed and kin as a “peculiar,” enigmatical,
incomprehensible people. The fact that their Book, which most thoroughly
reveals their innermost spirit, has become the cherished property of the
world, should have made such misconception impossible; but it has not
done so. Whatever, therefore, helps to show Jewish life in its true
aspect, to reveal the poetry and the romance, the sorrow and the
wretchedness, but also the joy and the beauty, the glory and the heroism
of Jewish existence even in the unheroic present, performs a most
useful, truly religious work. Nothing can do this more effectively than
fiction, which appeals to multitudes to whom works of formal learning,
of profound and scholarly research, could never find access. This is the
excuse of the writer for departing for a time from those domains of
Jewish learning which should, perhaps, more properly employ his
energies, and becoming, in a measure, a rival of those who have in
recent years tilled the field of Jewish fiction. In a ministry now of
many years’ duration he has naturally had the opportunity of becoming
acquainted with many interesting types of Jewish character, and with
many incidents which speak eloquently of the trials and tribulations
which still form a part of Jewish experience, of the evils and good
which result therefrom, and of the influence of Jewish teachings working
under such conditions. It has seemed to him desirable to present some of
these to the world in this easily grasped and popular form in order to
assist in the attainment of that comprehension of the Jews and their
life which is so necessary, if they are ever to cease from their present
abnormal state of mystery and be recognized in their natural relation to
the general life and religion of mankind. Whether he has performed his
task properly his readers shall judge.
THE AUTHOR.
NEW YORK, Ellul, 5665—September, 1905.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
THE VILLAGE, _Frontispiece_
THE VERY SPIRIT OF SABBATH PERVADED THE NOISELESS AIR, 20
THERE THEY SAT AND STOOD, IN VARIOUS ATTITUDES, WHILE
THE DEEPENING SHADOWS MADE THEIR FIGURES EVER VAGUER
AND MORE INDISTINCT, 21
THEY HONORED THE COMMUNITY FREQUENTLY WITH THEIR VISITS, 28
REB. SHEMAYAH AND PERLA, 49
THE LITTLE HORSERADISH WOMAN, 84
THERE IS SOMETHING COMMANDING, SOMETHING INDEFINITELY
MILITARY AND AUTHORITATIVE ABOUT HIM, 96
AS THE CAVALCADE PASSED A CORNER THE GENERAL HEARD A
CRY, 111
HE WAS NOTHING BUT A COMMONPLACE, EVERY-DAY PEDDLER, 131
A GROUP OF STREET-IDLERS WERE AMUSING THEMSELVES AT THE
PLIGHT OF A SHORT, DARK-COMPLEXIONED MAN WHO STOOD IN
THEIR MIDST, 142
NOTHING PLEASED THEM BETTER THAN A “HORSEY-BACK” RIDE, 172
THE SCISSORS-GRINDER, 186
I WAS LEFT BEHIND, GAZING OUT OF THE WINDOW AT THE
FUNERAL PROCESSION, 196
THE MAN WAS A WOE-BEGONE SPECIMEN OF HUMANITY, WITH
HUNGRY EYES GAZING AT YOU OUT OF A CARE-WORN, FURROWED
COUNTENANCE, 212
IT’S ONLY BECAUSE YOU’RE A JEW THAT YOU HAVE ANY
TROUBLE, 252
THE GAME WHICH ENSUED WAS HIGHLY INTERESTING, 287
FROM THE HEART OF ISRAEL.
THE VILLAGE KEHILLAH.
NORDHEIM.
Many persons, perhaps the majority of the readers of a certain kind of
Jewish literature at present in vogue, led astray by the revival and
improper application of the term Ghetto, have an idea that the great
mass of the Jewish people on the continent of Europe have their
habitations in filthy, noisome slums of the great cities, and that it is
only in such secluded reservations, away from the contact or observation
of the Gentile, that Judaism in its ancient, traditional form and
pristine vigor, is or can be, maintained. In the imagination of such
persons, deceived by prejudiced or sensation-seeking writers, Judaism is
a feeble, pale, cellar plant which leads its anæmic existence in
darkness and slime, but which withers and fades when exposed to the
fresh, strong breeze and the bright, warm sun of heaven. These notions,
however well they may suit the requirements of ambitious story-tellers,
are incorrect both as regards the alleged facts and the inferences drawn
therefrom. In the greatest part of the civilized world the Jews are not
confined, whether by compulsion or choice, to particular sections of the
cities, but dwell freely among their Gentile fellow-citizens everywhere;
nor is the law of Moses forced to flee for refuge to darksome purlieus,
where the humblest and lowliest of Judah’s strain drag out a wretched
existence as unwilling neighbors of the vicious and the criminal, but
finds multitudes of sincere upholders and adherents in the high places
of the lands among the happy possessors of what mankind esteems highest,
culture and wealth. In fact, it is not to the great cities at all that
we should look for the best examples of a living, earnest Judaism.
Scattered broadcast through the Old World, particularly through the
lands of central and southeastern Europe, may be found to this day
thousands of Jewish communities in villages and rural towns which are in
very truth “wells of purest Judaism undefiled,” and living refutations
of all the pet theories of the modern Jewish (?) novelist. Our brethren
in those little rural communities breathe the purest, health-giving air
that nature gives forth over mountain, field, and forest, and have never
found in the keen ozone any faith-destroying, heretical qualities. They
dwell side by side with the Gentile and meet him continually in all the
commercial and social relations of life, but they have never found in
the free intercourse any dread influence subversive of Judaic beliefs
and practices. Indeed, few of them are aware, except in a hazy and
indirect manner, that Judaism is in danger in this modern age of ours.
They live as their ancestors did before them, honest, simple, earnest,
sincere Jewish lives; happy in their state of moderate wealth or
endurable, light-pressing poverty; keeping their Sabbaths and their
holidays, fasting and feasting in the prescribed seasons, laying
Tephillin on week-days and eating only permitted food at all times,
giving freely of their means to assist the poor and afflicted, and
accepting misfortune with resignation as the will of God, and not
doubting but that this Judaism will continue to exist for all time to
come.
Of such a little _Kehillah_ in a German village, Nordheim, in the Rhön
Mountains of Bavaria, and of some of the quaint and interesting persons
that composed it, my tale shall be.
When, as a child, I made my first studies of the world around me, one of
the objects which chiefly attracted my childish gaze was a picture which
hung on the wall of the parlor of my home. It was a crude and inartistic
picture, awkward in delineation and barbarous in color; but it was full
of interest to me, for it spoke to me of a place far across the sea, a
place which oft-told but never wearisome tales had surrounded with a
bright halo of romance, and which my eager imagination had glorified
into a veritable fairyland; it was a picture of a village in that
Germany which seemed so far away and so unreal, my mother’s native
place, Nordheim _vor der_ Rhön. These sentiments were not entirely, nor
even mainly, due to the picture itself, but to the descriptions with
which mother ע״ה used to accompany it; for mother dear, God rest her
soul, among her other good qualities, had a most vivid and emphatic way
of impressing her ideas upon her auditors. She was not only in loving
tenderness and devotion the ideal of a Jewish parent, but a most
charming and entertaining _raconteuse_, full to the brim of
reminiscences of her youth, an animated chronicle of persons and events,
and capable of describing both the humorous and the pathetic in an
inimitably touching and taking manner. In addition to all this she was a
living refutation of the favorite anti-Semitic calumny, that Jews have
no sentiment of patriotism. She cherished in her heart the warmest and
most unquenchable love for her native land, while her attachment to the
memory of her birthplace, its ties and its traditions, approached the
dignity and sincerity of a religion. No wonder that from such a stirring
and enthusiastic source I imbibed the liveliest interest in all that
concerned Nordheim before the Rhön, its inhabitants and its welfare. I
would stand for hours at a time before that crude little picture on our
parlor wall, gazing at the array of houses with startlingly red roofs
and dazzlingly white walls, at the fields of brilliant green and the
trees with trunks as straight as ramrods and mathematically elliptical
foliage, and at the tin-soldier-like _gendarme_ whom the rustic artist,
who must have inclined either to realism or militarism (I could never
determine which) had depicted marching, with martial air and projecting
bayonet, along the country highway.
But I saw none of these things. My imagination gazed beyond these
externals and saw the quaint and touching figures of those who had their
abode in this secluded retreat, and I found myself wondering whether it
would ever be my privilege to see the spot where mother’s cradle had
stood, and to sojourn there where life flowed on in such pure and
peaceful and virtuous channels, far away from the crush and the turmoil,
the evil and the anguish of the great world, where the peasants were
simple, honest folk and the Jews all faithful to their ancestral
religion, where old age was venerated and childhood obedient and
respectful, where such things as violating the Sabbath and eating
_Trefoth_ were unknown.
My opportunity came in my twenty-first year. Circumstances, the nature
of which need not be dilated upon here, made it my privilege to spend
several years in Europe in study. But while I awaited, in joyous
anticipation, the day when I should enter upon my course at the North
German University and Seminary, at which I was to prepare for my life’s
vocation, it was with an absorbing interest, I might almost say with a
passionate longing, that I looked forward to actually seeing Nordheim,
and actually knowing the persons and conditions of which I had heard and
dreamt so much. Never shall I forget the day when, having crossed the
stormy Atlantic and travelled by train a day and a night southward from
Hamburg, I alighted at Mellrichstadt, the railroad station nearest to
Nordheim—four English miles—and saw upon the platform, waiting for me, a
pleasant-faced, dark-complexioned youth, whom I had never seen before,
and yet whom I at once recognized, for his features appeared in more
than one counterfeit presentment in a well-worn family album, over which
I had often pored more than three thousand miles away. It was Cousin
Solomon, and he had come to the station, having been notified by letter
of my prospective arrival, to meet his American relative, and to conduct
him to Nordheim and the bosom of his family. Then and there I recognized
the reality and the value of sentiment. Here were two persons, born in
different and widely separated lands, speaking different mother tongues
and citizens of different nations, who had never seen each other before;
and yet so powerful were the ties of kinship and the remembrance of
common blood and a common origin, that they sufficed to bridge over all
that yawning gap of separation and to bring heart to heart and lip to
lip in a union of truest love and affection. Our recognition was mutual
and instantaneous. We pronounced each other’s names, fell upon each
other’s necks, and a moment later were chatting as intimately as though
we had met daily during all our previous lives. Three years long I spent
my summer vacations at Nordheim, and I came to know and to love it and
the surrounding region so well that when the hour of final parting came,
it cost my heart more than one pang and drew more tears from my eyes
than I should like to confess. What a charming ideal life of sentiment
and pleasure we led there, Cousin Solomon and I. We seemed to be
hovering in a dream world, far too sweet and beautiful to be real. We
were at once students on a holiday, friends of nature, children without
a shade of care or anxiety, and sincere, devout worshippers at the
shrine of Israel’s God. We climbed together the steep and lofty
mountains which abound in that region, and when we had reached the
summit we gazed with delight at the dazzling panorama spread out before
us and inhaled deep draughts of the pure, cool, health-giving air. We
wandered for hours through the dense pine forests or undertook long
trips on foot to distant villages or spots that were interesting for
some historical or other reason. Once we made a long trip, in company
with Aunt Caroline, to the village of Burghauen, on the other side of
the Rhön Mountains, to visit some relatives there. We travelled in a
carriage belonging to the Duke of Weimar. We had hired it from the
duke’s manager, who was not above turning an honest penny with his
master’s property when occasion offered. The carriage bore the ducal
escutcheon, and our coachman and footman wore the duke’s livery; and as
we rolled through the various villages in grand style, the peasants and
their wives and children all came out and made deep and reverent
obeisance. I was quite astounded, but Aunt Caroline and Cousin Solomon
were so amused that they could hardly keep straight faces. Both they and
I bowed to the right and to the left and answered the salutations right
royally, at which the people seemed highly gratified.
“What is the reason of all this,” said I (to whom this unexpected
enthusiasm was extremely puzzling) to Solomon. “Do they make so much
fuss about everybody?” “Why, no!” said Solomon, laughing heartily. “They
recognize the carriage and the lackeys, and they take us for members of
the ducal family. They think mamma is the duchess, and you and me they
take for the young dukes.”
But, altogether, everybody was extremely friendly in Nordheim and
vicinity, Jew or Gentile, peasant, merchant or teacher, acquaintance or
stranger, without exception. It was “_gruesse Gott_,” and “_guten
Morgen_,” and “_guten Tag_,” and “_lebe wohl_,” and “_auf Wiedersehen_,”
and “_schlafe wohl_,” and “_angenehme Ruhe_,” and any number of other
kindly and sympathetic phrases, and all said with such evident sincerity
and good intentions as went quite through one and left one feeling warm
and charitable and kindly disposed toward humanity in general. And then
the eating, so abundant in quantity, so excellent, and more than
satisfying in quality. At first Aunt Caroline wanted to feed me all the
time. Six or seven times a day she would spread the table and invite me
to partake until I protested, and by dint of hard pleading induced her
to reduce the number of meals to four, with an occasional extra bite in
between. It makes my mouth water yet to think of the “_gefüllte
Flanken_,” and the “_gruenkern Suppe_,” and the “_eingelegte
Gänsebrüst_,” and the “_Zwiebeltätcher_,” and the “_gesetzte Bohnen_,”
and the “_Shabboskugel_,” and the thousand and one other delicacies with
which dear Aunt Caroline used to regale us, and to which healthy
appetites and youth gave a zest compared with which ambrosia must have
been poor. And, oh, the beer! Such magnificent stuff! So different from
the wretched pretence which we call by that name in America. I quite
lost all my temperance principles in Nordheim and have never recovered
them since.
But along with this joyous physical life there went a spiritual life no
less joyous and satisfying. We were Jews there in Nordheim. The Sabbath
was a guest whose arrival was looked forward to with the most eager
anticipation, and which seemed to cast a magic, sacred glamour over all
the Jewish houses in the village, transforming the prosaic, work-a-day
appearance of persons and things into an aspect of dignity and holiness.
All day long on Fridays until about an hour before nightfall, a
tremendous bustle of preparation was going on. Such cleaning and
scrubbing and polishing, such baking and boiling and brewing! It seemed
as though every house was being turned topsy-turvy. On that day, too,
the men folks came home several hours sooner than usual, and then there
was added the turmoil of the taking of baths and the polishing of shoes,
and the taking out of clean shirts and Sabbath suits, and dressing and
getting ready. But about an hour before nightfall all the noise and
clamor and turmoil ceased and Sabbath stillness began to settle over the
village. The quaint old seven-cornered Sabbath lamps were taken out and
the Jewish housewives lit them, pronouncing at the same time the
prescribed benediction. How charming and yet impressive Aunt Caroline
looked as she stood with uplifted hands and reverential mien before the
sacred lamp, the Sabbath cap of dainty lace and ribbons surmounting her
refined and regular features of purest Hebrew type, while from her lips
issued in the holy tongue the words of the benediction, “Blessed art
Thou, O Lord, our God, King of the universe, who hast sanctified us with
Thy commandments and bidden us light the Sabbath lamp.”
A half-hour later all were assembled in the little synagogue, which was
filled to the very last seat, for the Nordheim synagogue was not built
on the American plan. In our progressive country we build great and
imposing synagogues and temples for the benefit, not of the people who
regularly attend—for them a very small edifice would suffice—but of
those who pay the Almighty the honor of a visit only once or twice a
year. But the Nordheim synagogue had accommodations only for its regular
members and attendants, and these were expected to be in their places on
every occasion of public services. Sometimes somebody would be missing
at service, and then it used to amuse me to notice with what anxious
solicitude inquiry would be made of his family as to the cause of his
absence. It appeared to be taken for granted that only illness or some
other equally grave reason could induce any one to be absent from
synagogue at time of worship. I could not refrain from smiling when I
thought how pointless such solicitude would be in America, where, on the
contrary, the question addressed to any average Jew, should he present
himself in the synagogue on any but two or three days of the year, would
be, “What brings _you_ to _Shool_ to-day?”
The services in the synagogue at Nordheim were intensely interesting to
me, not, indeed, because of the artistic rendition of the ritual or the
technical excellence of the singing, but because of the spirit of
devotion and earnestness by which they were pervaded. I have listened to
numbers of cantors who certainly rank higher in their profession than
the humble individual who acted in the capacity of village teacher,
_Chazan_, and _Shochet_ in Nordheim, and the musical performances of
trained and paid choirs are undeniably superior to the untutored though
vociferous efforts of a rustic congregation. But all these have
something perfunctory and mechanical about their efforts which deprive
them of real charm and of power to touch and move the spirit. One
remains coldly critical in listening to them, and judges them solely
from the standpoint of professional ability and artistic merit. Not so
in Nordheim. There was an all-pervading sense of earnestness and reality
in the worship which made one forget the _how_ of the prayers and hymns
and think only of the _what_. Faith, deep and firm as the rocks,
ingrained into the very tissue and life of the spirit, looked forth from
those simple, earnest faces, shone forth from those sincere and
expressive eyes. This spirit gave the familiar ritual an entirely new
vividness and impressiveness. The worshippers seemed to be speaking
directly to their heavenly Father, and when, at the close of the _Lecho
Dodi_, the hymn of welcome to the Sabbath, all rose and faced the
entrance, I half expected to see Queen Sabbath herself, clad in bridal
robes of celestial purity, enter through the portals of that humble
house of God.
The prayers concluded, the worshippers greeted each other with hearty
“Good Shabbos” salutation and wended their homeward way. The scenes in
the homes were in some respects even more impressive than in the
synagogue. Uncle Koppel’s house particularly was resplendent with a
blaze of glory. The dining-room, which also served as parlor and best
room, was brilliantly lighted, and in the midst of the effulgence shone,
with especial radiance, the Sabbath lamp. The table was covered with a
linen cloth of snowy whiteness and laden with the finest porcelain,
glass, and silver that the household could boast, while at the head of
the table, opposite the seat sacred to the master of the house, stood
the two Sabbath loaves covered with a beautifully embroidered satin
cover; and at their side the silver _Kiddush_-beaker and the decanter,
from which the wine of blessing was to be drawn. Before _Kiddush_ Uncle
Koppel “marched” with the youngest of the children, and presented a
picturesque sight indeed as he paraded up and down the room, carrying
the infant of the family upon his right arm and leading the next
youngest by his left hand, chanting meanwhile the hymn of welcome to the
Sabbath angels. Then came the solemn benediction when the children all
presented themselves with bowed heads before their parents, and were
blessed by them in the words pronounced by Aaron of old over the tribes
of Israel, with an added invocation in the case of sons that the Lord
might make them like Ephraim and Manasseh, and of daughters that they
might become like Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel, and Leah. Then came Kiddush,
and the formal washing of hands and breaking of bread, and then the
Sabbath meal.
Oh, the pleasure of that Sabbath meal! Everybody had a magnificent
appetite on Friday evening; which was really no wonder, seeing that
every one had worked and hurried all day in preparation for the holy
evening; and that, in accordance with the religious precept, no one had
eaten any substantial meal all day in order that he should be able to do
justice to the first meal of the Sabbath. The dishes were various and
all excellent, for they were seasoned with that finest of spices—the
Sabbath—which gave them a flavor all their own, and which the most
famous _chefs_ of European or American hotels would strive in vain to
rival; but the _pièce de resistance_ was undoubtedly the fish. Trout of
the finest quality, speckled beauties, which had only been drawn a few
hours before from the icy waters of some one of the mountain streams of
the Rhön _gebirge_, they made their appearance at the table cold, from a
sojourn of several hours in the rock-hewn cellar, which served the
purpose of our modern refrigerators, and with a sweet-and-sour sauce of
the consistency of jelly. They were consumed with an avidity which boded
ill for their speckled _confrères_ of the mountain streams and shady
pools. After the meal and the formal pronouncing of grace, in which all
joined with a volume of sound which attracted the attention of the
village boys in the street outside, each one followed his or her own
sweet will. Some conversed, some read devotional books, some dozed until
the flickering of the lights betokened their approaching extinction and
warned all that the hour of retiring had arrived. Then with pleasant
“good-night” wishes, each sought the shelter of his or her couch.
On the morrow the observance of the Sabbath was continued in a manner
worthy of its inauguration. The morning service, which began at eight
and was over at half-past ten, was followed by _Kiddush_ and the second
of the three prescribed Sabbath meals. Here the chief feature was the
“_gesetztes Essen_,” or dishes which had been cooked on Friday and kept
warm in a special kind of oven known as “_Setzöfen_,” in which they were
surrounded by a gentle heat which neither burned nor dried them, until
they were served at the Sabbath meal. Some persons assert that food
cooked a day previous to being consumed is injurious to the health, but
to judge by the favor in which it was held in Nordheim, such can hardly
be the case. Of course not all food is capable of being treated in this
manner; but that which is, acquires a special taste and a mellowness
which makes it peculiarly palatable.
On our Sabbath menu we had “_gesetze Bohnen_,” the dish of whose glories
Heine has sung, and “_Shabbos-Kugel_,” to whose merits even a poet could
hardly do justice. After dinner visits were in order. The younger
members of the _Mishpochoh_ went to pay their respects to their seniors,
and the children of the community called at the various houses without
distinction of relationship and were treated to fruits and sweetmeats.
What impressed me on the part of the children was their extremely
respectful and bashful behavior, amounting almost to timidity. They
would knock timidly at the outside door; and on being bidden to enter
would step in on their tip-toes, timidly utter the Sabbath greeting, and
then stand in a row without opening their mouths until they were told to
be seated. They would not touch anything or do anything without
permission, and when given fruit or sweetmeats would modestly utter
words of thanks and eat them in silence. Their actions were typical of
the German-Jewish standard of child behavior. The children who were old
enough to receive tuition were also examined on the Sabbath in the
subjects in which they had been instructed during the week. Great was
the joy of parents whose son translated with fluency the _Sedrah_ of the
week, and the capable lad always received his reward in the shape of an
extra portion of fruit or sweetmeats.
After the visits and the examinations came the Sabbath nap. The Sabbath
nap! Let no one speak of it in tones of levity or disrespect, for it
stood in high esteem indeed in Nordheim and other communities of the
same type. Every one deemed it an absolutely indispensable feature of
correct Sabbath observance; and though few of the people were learned in
Hebrew lore, yet nearly all were able to quote in defence of their
practice the cabalistic interpretation that the letters of the word שבת
(Sabbath) are equivalent in meaning to the sentence שנה בשבת ת, which
may be parodied as “Sleep on _SaBBath_, the heart delighte_TH_.”
Between the hours of 1 and 4 P.M., the Nordheim _Kehillah_, to use a
heathenish illustration, lay locked in the arms of Morpheus. On sofas
and beds or in arm-chairs, within the house or before the doors, the
worthy _Baale Batim_, their spouses and children slumbered, dozed, and
reposed. The cat slept under the stove, the dog dozed peacefully before
the door, the very horses and cattle stood motionless as statues within
their stalls and seemed to slumber. It was a most peaceful, somnolent,
soporific scene. Not a sound disturbed the quiet of the village streets,
for the Gentile peasants were all abroad in the fields. The very spirit
of Sabbath pervaded the noiseless air, and everywhere were rest, repose,
and tranquillity universal. I, too, who had never been accustomed to
sleep by day, could not resist the drowsy influence of the general
example, and after the first week or two took my Sabbath nap as
regularly as any, and found it most agreeable. At four all were awake
again and then the third Sabbath meal, which was usually light, and
consisted only of coffee, cake, and fruit, was partaken of. The
congregation then gathered in the synagogue for afternoon service, at
the conclusion of which the Chazan “learned _Shiur_”—that is to say,
read to the assembled auditors extracts from a Hebrew devotional work,
in German translation, accompanying them with a running commentary of
his own. His diction was poor, his expressions the reverse of elegant,
and his train of thought in absolute disagreement with most of the pet
theories of the age; but I doubt whether the most eloquent and
scientifically trained of modern preachers ever had as attentive and
sympathetic a congregation as he. Now came the charmed time known as
“between _Minchah_ and _Maariv_,” the period most attractive and
pleasing to the Jewish heart of all the Sabbath day. As the light of the
sun is most beautiful and glorious just before it sets, so the Sabbath
seems sweetest and most delightful when it is about to depart. The
afternoon prayers and the _Shiur_ were both concluded; the day was
beginning to grow dark, but almost an hour must still elapse before the
Sabbath would be over and the evening prayer of the first day might be
recited. Some of the people went for a brief stroll in the fields;
others went into the inn where they were furnished with beer and other
light refreshments without payment; for the Gentile innkeeper knew well
that the observant Jew bore no money on his person on the Sabbath day,
but most remained in the synagogue or gathered in the court-yard before
the sacred edifice and passed the time in pleasant conversation or the
relation of anecdotes. There they sat and stood, in various attitudes,
while the deepening shadows made their figures ever vaguer and more
indistinct, and enjoyed the freest opportunity for unrestricted
conversation and interchange of thoughts that all the week afforded.
[Illustration:
THE VERY SPIRIT OF SABBATH PERVADED THE NOISELESS AIR
_Page 20_]
[Illustration:
THERE THEY SAT AND STOOD, IN VARIOUS ATTITUDES, WHILE THE DEEPENING
SHADOWS MADE THEIR FIGURES EVER VAGUER AND MORE INDISTINCT
_Page 21_]
All possible subjects came up for discussion “between _Minchah_ and
_Maariv_.” The politician of the Kehillah discoursed learnedly on the
European situation and the various problems of statecraft involved in
the relations of the great Powers to each other, the philosopher shed
the light of his wisdom on the great scientific movements of the day and
the wondrous inventions which are revolutionizing civilization, while
the Talmudist elucidated knotty and interesting questions of rabbinical
law or lamented the downfall of religious sentiment in these evil days
and contrasted these with the unyielding fidelity and loyalty of yore.
They all found attentive and eager listeners, to whom their words were
as the very revelation of the Urim and Tummim; but they did not arouse
the same degree of enthusiasm as the story-teller. This accomplished
narrator of witty tales and humorous anecdotes held the hearts of his
auditors in his hands; and when his turn came and he began to draw upon
his apparently inexhaustible stock of _Mesholim_, an immense enthusiasm
took possession of the entire audience, and there was no limit to their
enjoyment of the numberless good points he made. They were indeed
amusing, those tales of impecunious rabbis, and still more impecunious
_Bachurim_, of awkward bridegrooms and homely brides, of witty Poles and
scheming _Schnorrers_. But they were more. They were instructive, for
they reflected the inner life of the Jewish people, and showed, even if
from a humorous point of view, the many trials and difficulties by which
they were encompassed.
But now the shadows had deepened into night, and the _Shammas_, who had
the privilege of reading the service before the rest of the congregation
in order that he might be permitted to perform the work-a-day task of
lighting the lights, interrupted the pleasant tales of the story-teller
by a brief notification that the time for prayer had arrived. The
evening service was brief, lasting in all hardly more than a quarter of
an hour. Its chief feature was the _Havdoloh_, in which the Chazan
pronounced a number of benedictions over wine, spices, and a peculiar
braided wax candle, and thanked the Lord that He makes a distinction
between light and darkness, between Sabbath and week-day, and between
Israel and the nations. The service concluded, the worshippers greeted
each other with hearty “_Gut Woch_” and repaired to their homes, but not
yet to resume work-a-day tasks.
It was an unwritten law in Nordheim that the Saturday night was not to
be given over to labor or business, except in cases of emergency. The
women were particularly zealous in following this rule. Instead
sociability reigned supreme. The men indulged in friendly card-play, the
married women sat together in groups and gossiped, the youths and
maidens played musical instruments, sang, and danced. These pleasant
occupations were continued several hours, so that on Saturday nights the
worthy Jewish burghers retired much later than usual.
The sincerity and thoroughgoing consistency which marked the observance
of the Sabbath were characteristic of the religious life of the Nordheim
community throughout the year. It would be inconsistent with the scope
of this sketch to go into all the details of religious life and
practice; but suffice it to say that Jewish piety, as illustrated in
Nordheim, was eminently earnest, emphatic, and genuine. The very
children possessed the spirit of martyrs. They would have endured
tortures rather than eat forbidden food or violate the Sabbath or any
other of the holy days. Some of the manifestations of this piety were
quaintly humorous or pathetic, according to the viewpoint from which
they are regarded. The children of Nordheim, like children the world
over, were very fond of fruit and berries. Had they been permitted to go
into the orchards and gardens and gather their sweet products
unrestrained, there can be no doubt that as much would have disappeared
down their throats as they brought home. But the Nordheim mothers struck
upon a shrewd scheme for circumventing the appetites of their
sweet-toothed offspring, which did equal credit to their ingenuity and
their psychological knowledge. They would send the children to gather
fruits or pick berries upon a fast day. The plan was as effective as it
was beautifully simple. The children brought home all that they
gathered, for no Jewish child in Nordheim would have even thought of
committing such a heinous sin as tasting food on a _Taanis_. Think of
applying such a rule to American children! It would be about as
effective as trying to restrain a bull with a piece of cotton thread.
It is recorded of a worthy Nordheim _Baal Habbayis_ that he once saw
some flies rise from his boots and settle upon some hay, which was later
on eaten by his cows. Now that in itself is a trifling and insignificant
incident; but it so happened that the boots, in accordance with German
village custom, had been smeared with tallow, which, from the viewpoint
of the Jewish religious law is _Trefah_—that is, ritually unclean, and
forbidden to be eaten. Our worthy Nordheimer at once felt himself
burdened in his conscience and despatched a special messenger post-haste
to the rabbi at Gersfeld with an inquiry as to whether the milk of those
cows might lawfully be drunk. This pious scrupulosity did not, however,
as might be thought, involve any gloomy or dreary harshness of
sentiment. What we are accustomed to call the Puritanical frame of mind
was utterly unknown in Nordheim. On the contrary, a cheerful and
pleasant disposition, which made the tone of social intercourse
extremely agreeable, was the all prevalent mood. In individual instances
this mental tendency was emphasized into pronounced joviality, and the
happy possessors thereof became the “_Spass macher_,” the jesters and
fun-makers of the community. Woe betide the unfortunate individual who
acquired a reputation for sourness and unsociability. He was considered
a legitimate victim for the gibes and jests of the official jokers, and
small indeed was the meed of sympathy which he received.
Another instance of the prevailing jocoseness was the custom of
attaching nicknames to persons, which were then used instead of their
proper appellations. It was rarely that any one was referred to in
Nordheim by his given name, the nickname being so universally used as
almost to displace the real and legal cognomen. These nicknames were
derived from some personal characteristic or some peculiarity arising
from vocation or experience in life, which had struck the village wags
as humorous. It was “the black Elias,” or “the long Moses,” or “the bold
Isaac,” or “the gentle Sarah,” the last two appellations being, of
course, mildly ironical. One individual, who had an undue amount of
audacity in his psychological make-up, was known as “der _Baishan_,”
that is, “the bashful or timid one,” while another who had failed in
nearly everything he had undertaken was universally dubbed “der
_Mazzeldige Shmuel_,” that is, “lucky Sam.” A family, some remote
ancestor of which had once been imprisoned in a tower and escaped
therefrom by leaping from the window of his cell, was generally known as
“_die Thurm hüpfer_,” “the tower-hoppers,” while six brothers, all of
whom were over six feet tall and stout in proportion, bore the
strikingly apposite designation of “_die Kinderlich_,” that is, “the
babies.” The swineherd, who called his charges together by means of a
long tin trumpet, from which he emitted shrill and piercing, though
hardly melodious notes, was styled by the Jews “_der Baal Tokea_,” that
is, the blower of the Shofar or ram’s horn trumpet used in the services
of the New Year; while the village constable, who was an extremely pious
Catholic and always walked around through the village streets on Sundays
with a prayer book in his hand, from which he read with strait-laced
mien and ostentatious devotion, was dubbed “_der Baal Tephillah_,” that
is, the cantor or reader of the synagogue services.
SCHNORRERS.
The two banes of village life and at the same time the most diverting
figures therein were the _Schnorrers_ and the gendarmes or rural
policemen. The first-named gentry, wandering Jewish mendicants, who
believed in the socialistic doctrine that the world, or at least that
part of it which professed Judaism, owed them a living, were a most
interesting set and worthy of a special study in themselves. They
honored the community frequently with their visits. Some were usually
visible in the streets at all seasons of the year, and the services in
the synagogue were generally graced by the presence of two or three. In
most instances they professed intense piety and then their _Tephillin_
were larger, their _Talethim_ longer, and their prayers louder and more
ecstatic than those of the rest of the congregation. They came from
anywhere and everywhere. Most of them were of Russian or Polish origin,
but there was a goodly sprinkling of individuals of German birth and
occasionally a Sephardi from Jerusalem or some other Eastern region,
clad in Oriental robes and with a majestic turban upon his head,
relieved the monotony of Schnorrerdom and added interest and diversity
thereto by his strikingly alien and picturesque appearance. They came in
the most diverse guises. Some appeared in the rôle of venerable rabbis
with flowing beards, and anxious to display their learning in the law to
whomsoever they could induce to listen; others professed to be merchants
who had lost their all in ill-starred commercial ventures; while others
were wandering apprentices—_Handwerksburschen_—temporarily out of work.
Sometimes they were accompanied by their wives, who were always more
voluble and eloquent than their husbands. Sometimes an entire family,
grandparents, married sons and daughters and children of all ages,
including infants in arms, made their appearance and then the resources
of Nordheim charity were severely strained adequately to provide for
them.
[Illustration:
THEY HONORED THE COMMUNITY FREQUENTLY WITH THEIR VISITS
_Page 28_]
These Schnorrers were not beggars in the ordinary sense. They certainly
had no humble or suppliant air. They came into the house with the air of
calling upon old personal friends, and seemed to think it an entirely
self-understood and axiomatic matter that their co-religionists should
take upon themselves the duty of caring for their needs. Among them
many, no doubt, were genuinely unfortunate and deserving individuals,
but there was more than a suspicion that a large proportion had taken up
the pursuit of Schnorring as a peculiarly pleasant and profitable
vocation. Their reliance upon the charitable disposition of their
brethren in faith was well grounded. The Nordheim Jews were guided by
the eminently humane and noble principle that it is better that
ninety-nine undeserving persons should be aided than that one deserving
person should be refused the assistance he required; and, consequently,
every applicant for charity, unless it was positively known that he was
unworthy, received the help he craved. This help usually took the form
of food, lodging, and some money or clothing. A sort of system
prevailed. The Schnorrer would first call upon the _Parnass_, or
president of the congregation, who would then give him a ticket, called
_Plett_, a corruption of _Billet_, upon some member of the congregation,
entitling the stranger to food and lodging. These tickets were issued in
rotation, and were usually cheerfully honored. Some of the members even
had a predilection for entertaining these destitute brethren, and would
rival each other in the numbers they accommodate. It was amusing to hear
one boast that he had harbored, let us say twenty-seven, Schnorrers
during the year, only to be told by another, with triumphant mien, that
the number of his non-paying guests had been thirty-five. The most
celebrated hostess of this kind was a widow named Hannah. This
warm-hearted daughter of Israel strove to fulfil literally the precept
of the sages, “Let the poor be the children of thy house.” The days were
few when her house did not contain some “_guest_”; and she would give
him of her best, and wait upon him as though his presence was the most
distinguished honor. When asked once how it was that she, although not a
woman of means, was always ready to receive needy strangers, far more
so, indeed, than persons of far greater wealth, Hannah answered: “Why,
that is a very simple matter. All that one needs is a _Lef_ and a
_Loeffel_.”
Altogether, the mental attitude of the Nordheim Jews toward their needy
and mendicant co-religionists was very different from that which
prevails to-day; at any rate, in America. At present the unfortunates
who depend upon the aid of their supposedly sympathetic brethren are
considered a nuisance; an unsightly excrescence upon the body social to
be abolished by all means, if possible. The wretched applicant for
relief is rigidly scrutinized and interrogated by lynx-eyed committees
until he is made to feel as though he were a criminal on trial for his
life. A domiciliary visit is paid to his home by some surly
“investigator,” whose efficiency is measured by the number of
unfavorable reports he makes. And woe betide the miserable one whose
habitation shows some traces of neatness and gentility, and where some
humble ornaments, relics, perhaps, of happier days, have been suffered
to remain, and have not found their way into the pawnshop. Such a one is
at once declared an “undeserving case”; for does not his dwelling show
that he is still possessed of means, and his application is at once
summarily and without mercy rejected. But Nordheim knew nothing of such
uncharitable charity, such inhuman humanity. The disposition there was
truly charitable in the kindlier, and hence nobler, sense of the word.
Poverty was looked upon as a necessary and inevitable feature of human
existence, as, indeed, a part of the Divine order of the world; for had
not He said in His law, “The poor shall not cease from the midst of the
land”?