rustic home, respected and loved; yes, revered by all. As the French
king said, “_L’Etat, c’est moi_,” so Reb Shemayah could have said had he
been egotistical enough to have thought of such a thing, “The Nordheim
_Kehillah_; I am it.” He was the one dominant, overshadowing figure in
the whole Nordheim community; so that Nordheim became known as the place
where Reb Shemayah lived. And Nordheim people, when away from home and
stating whence they came, would often hear in comment the words, “Oh,
that is where Reb Shemayah lives.” Some of the less appreciative members
of the congregation resented slightly this preëminence, which was shared
by no one except Reb Shemayah’s excellent wife, Perla. Indeed, the
story-teller of the congregation, who was also the communal wag and
humorist, suggested that as Reb Shemayah was equivalent to the whole
_Kehillah_, the text of the _Yekum Purkan_ prayer, in which the
blessings of heaven are implored on Sabbath mornings for the
congregation, should be altered so as to restrict the benediction to Reb
Shemayah and his worthy spouse. He actually proposed a new wording with
that purpose in view, which, as it is not devoid of a certain wit and
may be interesting to those acquainted with the synagogue ritual, I
shall not refrain from giving in this place.
_Yekum purkan min Shemaya
Für die Perla und Reb Shemayah
In Nordheim vor der Rhön,
Ve-Nomar Omain._
Translated, this composition, a _mixtum compositum_ of Chaldaic and
Jewish-German, runs thus:
My salvation arise from heaven,
For Perla and Reb Shemayah,
In Nordheim before the Rhön,
And let us say, Amen.
But these rebellious murmurings did not dim even in the slightest degree
the brilliant radiance of Reb Shemayah’s reputation for learning, piety,
and benevolence. Ably seconded by his beloved Perla, who was on her part
also a model of olden Jewish wifely virtues, God-fearing, modest, hard
working, and tenderhearted, and who suffered from lack of recognition
solely through being eclipsed by the incomparable and exceptional merit
of her husband, he maintained an ideal home in which the traditional
principles of patriarchal authority and filial devotion, of strictness
tempered by gentleness and love, and of constant inculcation of lofty
ethical precepts were undeviatingly maintained. And when this gentle and
truly pious pair were laid away to rest—as they were within a few brief
days of each other—in the little Eternal House in Willmars on the other
side of the hill, tears flowed from the eyes of the many hundreds who
had followed them to their last resting-place; and all felt that the
words of the rabbis in the Talmud were but too true: “When the truly
righteous are departed from a place, gone is its glory, gone its
radiance, gone its splendor.”
Yes, Reb Shemayah was the crowning glory of Nordheim’s history, his
life-time the golden age in the pages of its annals. And therefore we
shall glance but briefly at some of the other whimsical or touching
figures that lived and moved and had their being within its ancient
walls. There was old Eliezer, who was always praying, because he thought
it a sinful misuse of human speech to apply it to any other use than to
the worship of the Maker. He always restricted his worldly remarks to
the briefest possible compass, and was never known to grow angry at any
one except on one occasion. Then it was the writer’s sainted mother, at
the time a little girl of a lively and humorous disposition, who had the
misfortune to arouse his ire, and even to receive a slap from his holy
hand. That happened in this wise. Eliezer had no sons, but two daughters
who bore the appellations respectively of Simchah and Glueck, the
signification whereof in the English idiom is “joy” and “good fortune.”
These two daughters, contrary to the usual lot of the Jewish maidens of
Nordheim, remained unmarried for a long time, so that at last they
entered into that state most hateful even to-day in our age of “bachelor
girls,” but doubly hateful then, old maidenhood. Finally Simchah
succeeded in becoming betrothed to a very worthy man. Eliezer was
overjoyed; but Glueck, although outwardly joyous, was, naturally enough,
more than a little jealous and displeased. At this juncture mother,
peace to her soul, chanced to meet old Eliezer when returning from the
synagogue, where the happy event had been announced and the young couple
duly blessed and, yielding to a momentary mischievous impulse, accosted
him thus: “_Mazzol tov_, Eliezer! I suppose your Glueck must have a
great _Simchah_ that your Simchah has such a _Glueck_.” The joke was
good; but Eliezer did not appreciate humor, and a slap was the reward of
this humorous effort. Eliezer not only spoke little at any time, but on
Sabbath he eschewed the vulgar vernacular altogether and would only
speak Hebrew, which language he alone considered suitable, as the holy
tongue for the holy day. But as he was anything but a Hebrew scholar,
the results of his efforts at restoring to colloquial use the idiom of
ancient Canaan I will leave to the imagination of the reader.
Then there was Asher, the _Chazan_, who was not really the Chazan or
official precentor of the synagogue, but a hard-working merchant in a
small way, who supported himself and his family by untiring and
unceasing labor and industry, but who was called Chazan because of his
remarkable knowledge of the traditional melodies of the German-Jewish
ritual. These melodies he could chant with much skill and a pleasant
voice; and his rendition of the services was so well liked by the
members of the congregation that they did not hesitate to say that Asher
“was a better Chazan than the Chazan.” Asher was a pleasant and friendly
individual altogether; but if one wished to gain his particular and
undying gratitude, there was no better way of doing so than by
communicating to him some new _niggun_ or Hebrew melody. It was my good
fortune to communicate to him some of the more modern synagogue chants
which I had heard in America, and which he, in his isolated village
life, had never had occasion to hear; and I do not doubt but he
remembers me gratefully to this day. Asher and his two brothers were
_Cohanim_—that is to say, of Aaronitic or priestly descent. As such it
was their prerogative, and that of their sons, to pronounce the
threefold benediction over the congregation on holidays; and it was
touching, indeed, to listen to their solemn and melodious rendition of
the ancient chant, and to notice the dignity and earnestness with which
they prepared to perform their traditional function. To gaze at them
while chanting the benediction was not permitted.
Then there was Isaac, the _Schlemihl_, a well-meaning, earnest
struggler, but a perfect type of the _Schlemihl_ or Jewish
ne’er-do-well, upon whose undertakings no blessing ever seemed to
descend. He worked harder, probably, than any three other members of the
Kehillah; but in his hands the fairest projects seemed to receive a
blight, and the most promising business ventures turned to wormwood and
ashes, to apples of Sodom and grapes of bitterness. But the Schlemihl,
perfectly useless though he was to himself and his family, had one very
evident purpose in the scheme of life, namely, to open the hearts of his
brethren to impulses of kindness and benevolence. They certainly acted
toward him in the most sympathetic and brotherly manner, and permitted
neither him nor his family to suffer. At the time of my arrival in
Nordheim, Isaac had just managed, through one of his usual transactions,
to lose all he had, and to have his house, which he had received as part
of the dowry of his wife, seized in satisfaction of his debts. But the
Nordheim Kehillah, assisted by some benevolent friends from other
places, paid off his debts, redeemed the house, and furnished him with a
certain amount of capital with which to begin life anew. For safety’s
sake the Kehillah retained the title in the house; for, as Uncle Koppel
said to me in confidence, “We might otherwise have to buy the house
every year.”
A peculiarly interesting character was David the horse-dealer, a jovial,
hale fellow, handsome too, and tall and strong as a lion, a very “mighty
man in Israel.” He was a stanch friend and reliable, and could be
depended upon to go through thick and thin for one who had once gained
his friendship. But David had one weakness, not unnatural, perhaps, in
those of his vocation. He knew no scruples of conscience in regard to
transactions in horseflesh; and some of his achievements in that line
had been, if report spoke truly, to say the least, extremely
venturesome. Thus he was credited with having once sold a Prussian major
who prided himself on his expert knowledge of the equine species, a
horse with only three hoofs. The manner in which David was said to have
done the trick was as follows: The deal took place in midwinter, when
the ground was covered with snow to the depth of a foot or more. The
horse was a fine animal, coal black and of handsome form, except that
the left front hoof was lacking. David led the horse out of the stable;
and as it stood in the deep snow before the Prussian major, who was
critically examining it through his eyeglasses, the absence of the hoof
was not noticeable. He then put it through its paces, cracking his whip
furiously, so that the horse leaped and dashed in a most fiery manner,
and the absence of the hoof was again not noticeable. The major was
charmed with the fire and grace of the animal, bought and paid for it at
once, and ordered it to be sent to his quarters. It is said that the
major was furious later, not so much on account of the money loss, but
because he, the expert, had been so neatly duped, and because he had no
legal remedy against David. Had David put a false hoof in place of the
lacking member, he would have been liable to a heavy penalty for fraud;
but he had not done so, and had made no false representation. And
therefore the major not only had no case against him, but could not even
demand the cancellation of the sale. Thus the story for whose veracity I
will not guarantee. But, however weak David’s conscience may have been
in matters of horsetrading, his conduct otherwise merited no reproach
and he was well liked.
Many were the estimable and lovable characters in Nordheim’s Kehillah,
and I cannot attempt to describe or even mention them all. Of Uncle
Koppel and Aunt Caroline I have already spoken. Uncle Koppel was a
typical Jewish _Baal-Ha-Bayith_, or householder, a business man of
probity, whose word was as good as his bond, a faithful worshipper at
the altar of Israel’s God, and a worthy upholder, by character, if not
by learning, of the reputation of Reb Shemayah, his father. Aunt
Caroline was a true mother in Israel, loyal, conscientious, and devout.
Their able sons and charming dark-eyed daughters were imbued with their
spirit, and together they formed an ideal household. Nor must I forget
Aunt Gella, the only other child of Reb Shemayah who had remained in the
native village, a woman of noble parts, who, had her lot been cast
somewhere else in the great world, might have played an important part
in history. Her noble brow, which emerged so modestly from the recesses
of her _Scheitel_ and her mild and clear blue eyes, showed her the
possessor of a strong and well-developed intellect; and her wise and
well-considered conversation showed that the reality corresponded to the
indications. Her heart was as warm and good and her spirit as firm and
courageous as her mind was keen and clear; and she was, so to speak, the
combined oracle and Lady Bountiful of the village. Was any female or,
for that matter, any male villager in trouble, in want of counsel or
help, she or he would direct her or his steps to the neat cottage in the
Long Street where dwelt Aunt Gella, and there would find counsel or
comfort, or whatever help was required. A plague of dysentery came once
upon the village, and then it was that Aunt Gella showed herself the
veritable angel of help. While it continued she hardly ate or drank or
slept or changed her clothes. She worked with tireless energy at her
mission of mercy, going from house to house among the afflicted ones,
bringing the right medicine to one, the right food to the other, and
money to the third. Dear Aunt Gella: methinks I see her sweet, mild face
now, and hear the words of blessing with which peasant and Jew mentioned
her name. And besides those whom I have mentioned, there were dozens of
householders in which piety, probity, and loving kindness were the
constantly practised rule of life.
Yes, Nordheim, I loved thee well, and I love thy memory. I loved thee
for thy simplicity, for thy natural goodness, for the true and
unpretentious way in which thou didst lay stress upon that which is pure
and noble, and didst reject that which is base and vile in human life;
for the picture which thou didst show me of the beautifying and
sanctifying effect of a simple, sincere, and honest Judaism, simply and
sincerely lived. Thou wast one of the forces which did lead me to love
and uphold the Torah, and to cleave to the faith which my and thy
ancestors received at Sinai from Sinai’s God.
Oh, that this tale of thee might work likewise upon the hearts of others
like me, children of an unbelieving and irreverent age, and stir them to
love for Israel’s God and devotion to Israel’s sacred heritage!
THE LITTLE HORSERADISH WOMAN.
How many of my readers know the little horseradish woman? Many, I have
no doubt, are more or less acquainted with her; and those who are not
can make her acquaintance without any difficulty. Almost any afternoon
and late into the evening, except on Sabbaths or Jewish holidays, she
may be found at her post in one of the blocks of upper Third Avenue, New
York, standing behind her improvised little table, industriously rubbing
away at her acrid merchandise, with only occasional pauses to wipe away
with the corner of her snow-white apron the tears which her lachrymose
occupation forces from her eyes, or to give customers extraordinarily
liberal portions of her finished product. The size of the portions she
sells is quite astonishing to the customer; but the little horseradish
woman is scrupulously honest in matters of weight and measure, of mine
and thine, and would not think of giving less.
[Illustration:
THE LITTLE HORSERADISH WOMAN
_Page 84_]
Her tears, too, are quite remarkable. Indeed, I believe that horseradish
tears have not been appreciated as they should be, for they are a
species entirely _sui generis_, and not to be confused with any other
tears that are shed on earth. Ordinary, every-day tears indicate sorrow
and produce weakness; crocodile tears indicate hypocrisy and produce
disgust; but horseradish tears are born of industry, and their offspring
are energy and good-humor. Such, at least, is the case with our little
horseradish woman; for, no sooner has she wiped away one of her
periodical outbursts of tears, than she begins to rub away again with
the utmost energy and the best humor in the world. My observation of the
tears the horseradish woman sheds has made me their confirmed admirer. I
have no liking for the lachrymose ebullitions of love-lorn maidens, of
snivelling swains, or of wheezing or wheedling Pecksniffs. Give me
horseradish tears; they are the honestest, cheerfullest—I had almost
said—manliest tears in the world.
Our horseradish woman is known by various names. Some call her “the old
Rebecca”; others, desiring to speak more formally or respectfully, refer
to her as “old Mrs. Levy”; but the appellation by which she is most
widely and popularly known is _das Meerrettich Weible_—the little
horseradish woman. It makes no difference, however, by what designation
she is known, she is popular under them all; for the little horseradish
woman is liked. Some like her for her courage in toiling so constantly
and industriously, and supporting herself at her advanced age; others
like her because of her unfailing cheeriness and good-humor; others,
again, because of her simple, trustful faith and earnest piety, for the
little horseradish woman is more than usually religious, and is to be
found in the synagogue, not only on Sabbaths and holidays, but also at
the early morning and evening services on week-days, and is one of the
most attentive listeners to the rabbi when he expounds the Sedrah on
Sabbath mornings, or “learns Shiur” on Sabbath afternoons or week-day
evenings.
It is a truly pleasing picture which the little horseradish woman
presents when she stands at her post ready for business. Her regular and
refined features, of the familiar Jewish type, are, it is true, worn and
wrinkled, and the hair which peeps out from under the cloth band and the
old-fashioned bonnet which surmount her head is whitened by the seventy
or more winters which have passed over her; but the light of
intelligence, of benevolence, and of pure and refined sentiments shines
in her countenance and makes it singularly attractive. Her clothing is
of the plainest. She wears a dress of some simple, dark material and
over it a long, white apron; but no patch, tear, nor stain is visible
anywhere, and we feel instinctively that we have before us a person who,
though in humble, even lowly circumstances, is naturally and
intrinsically refined.
But as yet we do not know the little horseradish woman. It is only upon
entering into conversation with her that we really find out what she is,
and a great surprise awaits us then. For this poor, little, old woman
who stands upon the street in all weather and seasons, and toils so hard
to earn a few cents by the sale of her commodity, comes of excellent
family, has had, for her time, an exceptionally good training, and is,
in some respects, a remarkably well-educated woman.
She was born as the daughter of a rabbi in a small provincial city of
Germany, and her father, besides instilling into her soul the seeds of
fervent Hebraic piety, saw to it that she received a thorough secular
and religious training. As a consequence her manners are those of polite
and well-bred circles, her German is pure and correct in grammar and
pronunciation, and what is most surprising and pleasing to the Jewish
scholar, she is acquainted with the entire Bible in the original Hebrew.
The Book of Psalms she knows by heart and quotes with amazing fluency;
and from her experience in her father’s house she has derived a large
number of technical Talmudic phrases, which she uses in her conversation
with entire correctness of expression and application.
And the most remarkable thing of all is the entire lack of
self-consciousness on the part of the little horseradish woman. She is
entirely unaware that there is anything out of the ordinary in her life,
her characteristics, or her circumstances. She never comments upon the
different conditions that prevail to-day, never boasts nor condemns, is
simple, natural, and unaffected; a typical, humble, pious Jewish woman.
Oh, that you might come, you artificial, affected daughters of an
artificial, affected age, and learn simple refinement and natural
dignity from this lowly sister of yours! The lesson is needed and would
prove effective.
Last Saturday night, after the “going out” of the Sabbath, my wife and I
also determined to go out for a stroll on Third Avenue. We often take
these strolls, and enjoy them. My wife loves the excitement of the
lights and the crowds, which make it doubly pleasant to meet an
acquaintance or make an occasional purchase; and I am equally fond of
studying human nature where it makes its most characteristic appearance,
in the busy throngs of men. We had not seen the little horseradish woman
for some time, for she had given up of late her habit of coming to our
house with her wares, and her stand was not on any of the blocks we
usually traversed.
That evening we extended our walk a little further than usual. As we
neared —th Street, suddenly Mrs. —— exclaimed: “Look, there is the
little horseradish woman!” Sure enough it was she, and we immediately
went up to her.
While she was returning our greeting with great cordiality and
friendliness, I noticed that she did not appear to be as well as usual.
Her movements were lacking in their customary vivacity, and her face
seemed thinner and paler than its wont.
“How are you getting on, Mrs. Levy?” I said, while she was filling a bag
with our ordered portion of horseradish.
“_Boruch Hashem_, quite well,” she responded with a smile. “My friends
are good and patronize me steadily, but I feel that I am growing older.
I was quite ill the other day. I nearly fainted here on the street; but
the people in the delicatessen store were very kind. They took me in and
gave me cold water, and kept me there until I recovered; and I am
feeling quite well now.”
While listening to her words, I thought to myself how hard her lot was;
and I asked myself whether it really was necessary for her to stand on
the street and earn her living in such a trying manner.
“My good Mrs. Levy,” I said, “don’t you think your life is too hard for
you? Would you not rather go to some institution where you would be
cared for?”
“Oh, no, thank you,” she responded. “I don’t wish to go to a home. I
have a husband, although he is old and feeble, and good children who do
what they can for me; and I am glad that I still can earn something
myself. You know what King David says in the Psalms,” and she quoted
glibly, “_Yegia keppecho ki sochel, ashrecho ve-tov-loch_” (“If thou
eatest what thy hands earn, thou art happy, and it is well with thee”).
“I eat what my hands earn, so I am happy.”
“Why don’t you come to our house any more?” broke in my wife.
“Oh,” answered the little horseradish woman, “I heard that another woman
brings you your horseradish, and I did not wish to be _massig gevool_.”
Our package was now ready and we departed. But my thoughts gave me no
rest. I was thinking continually of the little horseradish woman, and
whether it was not possible to devise some means of improving her lot.
A few blocks down the avenue we met Mr. and Mrs. Bergheim. They are
friends and neighbors of ours, and our greetings were cordial. I soon
turned the conversation to that which was uppermost in my thoughts.
“You know the little horseradish woman, do you not?” I asked.
The Bergheims nodded assent.
“Don’t you think something could be done for her?” I continued. “It does
seem wrong that such a worthy old person should be forced to stand on
the street and toil so hard for a livelihood.”
The Bergheims smiled at each other peculiarly.
“What would you do for her?” asked Mr. Bergheim. “She is much too proud
to accept charity; besides, she really does not need to work, as her
children supply her with all she requires for herself and husband. Her
horseradish receipts are so much extra income that she earns.”
I must confess that this reply rather staggered me. There appeared to be
a mystery about the horseradish woman which was puzzling, to say the
least.
“But why, in the name of common sense,” I demanded, “does such an old
and not overstrong woman toil on the streets, in rain and shine, by day
and by night, if she has all she requires and does not need to work? It
doesn’t seem reasonable. She isn’t touched in her upper story, I hope?”
“Oh, no, not at all,” said Bergheim; “but you see, she has rather
unusual and exalted notions about duty. Since the requirements of
herself and husband are satisfied and she has some strength, she thinks
it her duty to labor for the poor. Every cent she earns by selling
horseradish she gives to the poor. It is quite an amount, for she has
many customers; and quite a long list of widows and orphans and feeble
old men who are regular pensioners on her charity.
“Every _Rosh Chodesh_ there is quite a gathering in her humble flat. All
sorts of needy and afflicted persons, men, women, and children, crowd
her rooms, and she divides among them, with the most kindly sympathy but
with excellent judgment, all the money she has earned during the month.
The blessings she gets are innumerable, and she considers herself well
rewarded thereby for all her trouble.
“I found this out by accident, as she never says a word about it to any
one. When I asked her why she went to all this trouble, she quoted a
passage from the Pentateuch: ‘Verily, thou shalt not harden thy heart
nor close thy hand against thy poor brother’; and in another from the
Ethics of the Fathers, ‘The poor shall be the children of thy house,’
and said those were her reasons.