The Bet-ha-Midrash was a large, well-lighted building standing on the
courtyard close to the synagogue. It served for various purposes:
people congregated there for the less solemn prayers or lectures; the
learned used it for their discussions upon knotty points of the
Talmud, here also were kept the books of the different brotherhoods
or societies, of which there are many in every Jewish community; and
lastly, it served as a place of penance in exceptional cases, when
any of the young men had transgressed the religious or moral laws.
The punishment was not so much a physical discomfort as a moral one,
and left an indelible stain upon the delinquent's character.
Opposite the Ha-Midrash rose a smaller but equally well-kept
building. It was the Bet-ha-Kahol or Kahol room, where the
functionaries of the town council and the elders held sittings. A
little further was a more modest building, the Hek-Dosh or poor
house, where all those who were unable to work and were hungry had
the right to apply for food and shelter.
Opposite the house of prayer was the heder or school, where the
learned and much-respected Reb Moshe ruled. The court with all its
buildings, from the synagogue and hospital to the tiny dwelling of
the Rabbi was like the capital of a small realm: everything was there
which could promote the well-being of the public.
All these buildings had been raised at one time, to embody a great
idea, either to serve God or mankind. In what manner these lofty
ideas had been perverted and served other purposes than those first
conceived is another thing altogether--for this we must go to
history.
Eight days bad elapsed since the memorable evening when the young men
bad conversed and sung together on the meadow. On the ninth day,
after sunset, Meir left the Ha-Midrash and stood in its high portico.
Obedient to the order of the head of the family, he had spent the
week in utter solitude, reading the Talmud which he knew so well
already, and for which, in spite of all the doubts which troubled his
mind, he never lost the reverence implanted into him from his
childhood. The penance had not brought him any physical discomforts;
his meals were carried to him from home, where the charitable women
had tried to make them even more palatable than usual. Nevertheless,
he was much changed. He looked paler, thinner, yet withal more manly.
Neither in his expression nor bearing was there any trace of his
former almost childish timidity. Perhaps his intelligence had
rebelled against the injustice of the punishment; it may be the
solitude and the study of the many volumes in the Ha-Midrash had
called forth new ideas and confirmed him in the old ones. The nervous
contraction of his brow and his feverish burning eyes betrayed hard
mental work, all the harder because without help or guide. The
penance inflicted upon him bad missed its aim. Instead of quieting
and soothing the restless spirit, it made him bolder and more
rebellious.
When Meir descended the steps into the court another feeling took
hold of him--that of shame. At the sight of several people crossing
the courtyard he dropped his eyes and blushed. They were elders of
the Kahol, who seeing Meir, pointed at him and laughed. One of them,
Jankiel Kamionker, did not laugh, and seemingly had not noticed the
young man. He was walking apart from his companions, and his face
looked troubled and preoccupied. Instead of entering into the Kahol
building with the other men, he almost stealthily approached the
almshouse; he only passed it, but it was sufficient to exchange a few
whispered words with a man whose shaggy hair and swollen face
appeared at the open window. Meir knew the man, and silently wondered
what business the rich and pious Jankiel could have with a thief and
vagrant like the carrier Johel. But he did not think much about it,
and directed his steps, not towards home, but to a small passage near
the school, which would bring him out into the fields; he was longing
for space and air. He stood still for a few minutes. An odd murmuring
noise, rising and falling, mixed with an occasional wailing reached
his ear; it was dominated by a thick, hoarse voice alternately
reading, talking, and scolding.
A peculiar smile crossed Meir's face; it expressed anger and
compassion. He was standing near the school where the melamed Reb
Moshe infused knowledge into the juvenile minds. Something seemed to
attract him there; he leaned his elbows on the window-sill and looked
in.
It was a narrow, low and evil-smelling room. Between the blackened
ceiling, the wall and the floor full of dirt and litter, which filled
the air with a damp and heavy vapour, there seethed and rocked a
compact, gray mass which produced the murmuring noise. By and by, as
if out of a dense fog, childish faces seemed to detach themselves.
The faces were various, some dark and coarse, as if swollen with
disease; others pale, delicate and finely cut. As various as the
faces were their expressions; there were those who, with mouth wide
open and idiotic eyes stared into vacancy; others twitched and
fretted with ill concealed impatience but most of them, though
suffering, looked patient and submissive. Their outward appearance
showed an equal variety, from the decent coat of the rich man's
child, in gentle graduations to the sleeveless jackets and tatters of
the very poorest classes.
Some fifty children were crowded into that room which barely
accommodated half that number. They sat almost one upon the other, on
hard dirty benches, closely packed together. This was not the only
school in Szybow but none of the others was so eagerly sought after
by parents as the one conducted by Reb Moshe, known by his piety and
cabalistic knowledge, the favourite of the Rabbi. It must not be
thought that Reb Moshe initiated his scholars into the first steps of
learning; this would have been sheer waste of his capabilities--which
aimed at something higher.
The children he received were from ten to twelve years old, who had
already been taught in other schools to read Hebrew and the Chumesh
or Five Books of Moses, with all their explanations and commentaries;
after that they came under the tuition of Reb Moshe and were
introduced to the Talmud, with all its chapters, paragraphs,
debatable points, and commentaries above commentaries.
All this would have been more than sufficient to enlarge or confuse
the minds of those pale, miserable children; but Reb Moshe in his
zeal did not content himself with exercising the memory of his
scholars; he wanted also to develop their imagination, and sometimes
treated them to extracts from the metaphysical Kabala. The reading or
expounding of parts of those books was looked upon by him as a kind
of rest or recreation, which sometimes it proved to be when the
melamed was too deeply absorbed to watch his audience.
The melamed was thus occupied when Meir looked through the window. He
was bending over a heavy book with an expression of ecstatic rapture,
and rocking his body to and fro with the chair upon which he sat. The
scholars with their books before them were also rocking themselves
and repeating their lessons in a loud murmur, sometimes smiting the
edge of the bench with their fists by way of emphasis, or burying
their hands in their already tangled manes.
Suddenly the melamed left off rocking himself, took the heavy book in
both hands and struck it with all his might on the table. It was the
signal for silence. The scholars left off rocking and raised their
eyes in sudden alarm, thinking the time bad come to give out their
lessons.
But the melamed was not thinking of the lessons; his spirit had been
carried away into other spheres altogether, but he was still dimly
conscious of his duties as a teacher, and wanted his scholars to
share in his spiritual rapture. He raised his finger and began to
read a paragraph from the Scheier Koma.
"The great prince of knowledge thus describes the greatness of
Jehovah: The height of Jehovah is one hundred six and thirty times a
thousand leagues. From the right band, of Jehovah to His left the
distance is seventy-seven times ten thousand leagues. His skull is
three times ten thousand leagues in length and breadth. The crown of
His head is sixty times ten thousand leagues long. The soles of the
feet of the King of Kings are thirty thousand leagues long. From the
heel to the knee, nineteen times ten thousand leagues; from the knees
to the hip, twelve times ten thousand and four leagues; from the
loins to the neck, twenty-four times ten thousand leagues. Such is
the greatness of the King of Kings, the Lord of the world."
After this last exclamation, Heb Moshe, his hands raised in the air,
remained motionless. Motionless likewise were the children. All,
without exception, the timid and the mischievous, the idiotic and the
sensible ones, stared open-mouthed at the melamed The description of
Jehovah's greatness seemed to have paralysed their minds.
After a short pause the melamed woke up to the every-day business,
and called out:
"Go on."
The children again resumed their murmur and rocking. It would have
been impossible from their confused voices to get an inkling of what
they were learning but Meir, who had passed through the same course
and possessed an excellent memory, understood that they were at the
eighth chapter of Berachot (about the blessing).
The children, with great efforts that brought the perspiration to
their faces, read in a singing murmur:
"Mischna, 1. The disputed questions between the schools of Shamai and
Hillel. The school of Shamai says: 'First, bless the day and then the
wine.' The school of Hillel says: 'First bless the wine and then the
day' (the Sabbath)."
"Mischna 2. The school of Shamai says: 'To wash the hands, then fill
the cup.' Hillel says: 'Fill the cup, then wash the hands.'"
"Mischna 3. The school of Shamai says: 'After washing, put the napkin
on the table.' The school of Hillel says: 'Put it on a cushion.'"
"Mischna 4. The school of Shamai says 'Sweep the room, then wash your
hands.' The school of Hillel says: 'Wash your hands, then sweep the
room.'"
A double knock with the heavy book upon the rickety table reduced the
scholars to silence once more.
The melamed's round and gleaming eyes wandered around the room as if
in search of a victim. He pointed to one of the hindmost benches, and
called out:
"Lejbele!"
A pale and slender child rose at the summons and fixed a pair of
large, frightened eyes upon the teacher.
"Come here."
There was a great rustle among the boys, for it was no easy matter to
pass across that dense mass of children. Lejbele at last managed to
squeeze himself through, and holding his book with both hands, stood
within the small space between the teacher's table and the front
bench. He did not look at the melamed, but kept his eyes fixed upon
the book.
"Why do you look down like a brigand? Look at me!" and the melamed
struck him under the chin.
The child looked at him, his eyes slowly filling with tears.
"Well! what does the school of Shamai say, and what the school of
Hillel?" began the melamed.
There was a long silence. The children of the first bench nudged his
elbow, and whispered:
"Speak out!"
"The school of Shamai," began Lejbele, in a trembling voice, says,
"bless the wine. . . ."
"The day--the day, and then the wine," whispered a few compassionate
voices from the first bench. But, at the same time, the melamed's
hand came into contact with the ear of one of the offenders, and his
yell reduced the others to silence.
Reb Moshe turned again to the child.
"Mischna the first. What says the school of Shamai?"
The answer came in a still more trembling, almost inaudible, voice:
"The school of Shamai says: 'Bless the wine'. The melamed's fist came
down upon the young Talmudist's shoulder, out of whose hands the
heavy book slipped and fell upon the floor.
"You bad, abominable boy," yelled the melamed, "you do not learn your
lessons, and you throw your book upon the floor. Did you not read
that the school of Shamai says, 'To bless first the day and then the
wine?'"
Here a loud and sarcastic voice from the window called out;
"Reb Moshe, that poor child has never seen wine in his life, and
suffers hunger and flogging every day; it is not easy for him to
remember whether to bless first the day and then the wine."
But Reb Moshe did not hear that speech, because both his hands were
busy belabouring the head and shoulders of his pupil, who, without
crying out, tried to avoid the blows by ducking on the floor.
Suddenly a pair of strong hands pushed the melamed aside, and he,
losing his footing, fell down, carrying with him the rickety table.
"Reb Moshe!" called out the same sarcastic and angry voice.
"Is this not an Israelitish child that you wreak your spite upon it?
Is it not a poor man's child and our brother?"
His face burning with indignation, he bent down, and raising the
child in his arms, turned towards the door.
"Reb Moshe, you drive all intelligence out of the children's heads,
kill all the feeling in their hearts; I heard them laughing when you
beat Lejbele."
Saying this, he disappeared with the child in his arms.
Only then did Reb Moshe awaken from the stupefaction into which the
sudden assault had plunged him, and disengaging his burly frame from
under the table, he shouted:
"Assassin! murderer!" and turning towards his scholars, yelled: "Get
hold of him! stone him!"
But he addressed empty benches; the books lay scattered about and the
seats turned upside down. The scholars, seeing their master prostrate
under the table, and one of their companions rescued by main force,
had all rushed, partly from fright and partly from a wish for
liberty, through the door and dispersed about the town like a flight
of birds released from a cage.
The school was empty and the court deserted, except for a few grave
looking men who stood in the portico of the Bet-ha-Kahol, and towards
them rushed the frantic melamed, panting and tearing his hair. Meir
in the meanwhile went swiftly on, with the child in his arms, whose
tears fell thick and fast; but the eyes which looked through the
tears at Meir were no longer the tears of an idiot.
"Morejne!" whispered Lejbele.
"Morejne!" he repeated, in a still lower voice, "how good you are!"
At the corner of the little street where the tailor lived, Meir put
the child down.
"There," he said, pointing at Shmul's house, "go home now."
The child stiffened, put his hands into his sleeves, and remained
motionless. Meir smiled and looked into his face:
"Are you afraid?"
"I am afraid," said the motionless boy.
Instead of returning as he had intended, the young man went towards
Shmul's hut, followed at a distance by Lejbele. The day was almost
over, and so was work in the little street. The pale and ragged
inhabitants crowded before their thresholds.
Scarcely had Meir penetrated into the street, where he became aware
of a great change in the attitude of the people towards him.
Formerly, the grandson of Saul had been greeted effusively on all
sides; they had come to him with their complaints, sometimes asked
for advice; others had greeted him from their windows with loud
voices.
Now scarcely anybody seemed to notice him. The men looked away; the
women glanced at him with curiosity, whispered to each other, and
pointed their fingers at him. One of the woodcutters with whom he had
worked at his grandfather's looked at him sadly and withdrew into his
hut. Meir shrugged his shoulders impatiently.
"What is it all about?" he thought. "What wrong have I done to them?"
Strange it seemed to him also that the tailor did not rush out to
meet him with his usual effusive flatteries and complainings;
nevertheless he entered the dwelling. Lejbele remained outside,
crouching near the wall.
The young man had to bend his head in order to enter the low doorway
leading into the dark entrance where two goats were dimly visible,
thence to the room where the air, in spite of the open window, felt
heavy and oppressive. A thin woman with a wrinkled face passed him on
the threshold. It was Shmul's wife, who carried a piece of brown
bread to the child outside, Lejbele's supper when he came home from
school.
The whole family were eating a similar supper, with the exception of
the elder and grown-up people, who seasoned their bread with pinches
of chopped raw onion, of which a small quantity was lying on a
battered plate. Besides Lejbele, there were two younger boys sitting
on the floor, a two-year-old child crawled about on all fours, and a
baby a few months old was suspended in a cradle near the ceiling, and
rocked by one of the elder girls. Another girl was busy with the
goats, and a third was feeding a blind old woman, Shmul's mother. She
broke the bread in pieces, sprinkled onion upon it, and put it into
the grandmother's hand, sometimes into her mouth. The blind mother
was the only one in the family who possessed a bed; the others slept
on the floor or upon the hard benches. She looked well cared for, the
crossover on her shoulders was clean and whole, and on her head she
had a quilted cap of black satin, profusely trimmed.
The grand-daughter seemed quite absorbed in task of feeding the old
woman. She patted wrinkled hand encouragingly when she perceived
difficulty in masticating the hard food.
As in the prosperous household of Saul, so in the dirty hut of the
tailor, Shmul, the mother occupied the first place, and was the
object of general care and reverence. Such a thing as a son, be he
rich or poor, neglecting those who gave him life, is never seen in
Israel. "Like the branches of a tree, we all sprang from her," said
the head of the house of Ezofowich.
The tailor, Shmul, could not express his feelings like Saul, but when
his mother lost her sight, he tore his long, curly hair in despair,
fasted with his whole family for three days, and with the money thus
saved bought an old bedstead, which he put together with his own
hands against the wall; and when Sarah Ezofowich, Ber's wife, gave
him an order to sew a black satin dress for her, he cut a goodish
piece from the material to make a quilted cap for his mother.
When Shmul saw Meir coming into the room, he jumped up, bending his
flexible body in two; but he did not kiss his hand as usual, or call
out joyfully:
"Ai! what a visitor, what a welcome visitor! Morejne!", he exclaimed,
"I have heard of what you have done. The children from school came
running past, and said you had knocked the melamed under the table
and rescued my Lejbele from his powerful hands. You did it out of
kindness, but it was a rash deed, Morejne, and a sinful one, and will
bring me into great trouble. Reb Moshe will not take Lejbele back,
nor receive any of my other boys, and they will remain stupid and
ignorant. Ai! Ai! Morejne, you have brought trouble upon me and upon
yourself with your kindly heart."
"Do not trouble about me, Shmul; never mind about what I have brought
upon myself, but take pity upon your child, and at least do not whip
him at home; he suffers enough at school."
"And what if he suffers?" exclaimed Shmul. "His fathers went to
school, and I went there and suffered the same; it cannot be helped;
it is necessary."
"And have you never thought, Shmul, that things might be different?"
questioned Meir gently.
Shmul's eyes flashed.
"Morejne!" he exclaimed, "do not utter sinful words under my roof. My
hut is a poor one, but, thanks to the Lord, we keep the law and obey
the elders. The tailor Shmul is very poor, and by the work of his
hands supports his wife, eight children, and his blind mother. But he
is poor before the Lord, and before the people, because faithfully he
keeps the covenant and the Sabbath, eats nothing that is unclean,
says all his prayers, crying aloud before the Lord. He does not keep
friendship with the Goims (aliens) as the Lord protects and loves
only the Israelites, and they only possess a soul. Thus lives the
tailor Shmul, even as his fathers lived before him."
When the flexible and fiery Shmul had finished, Meir asked very
gently:
"And were your fathers happy? and you, Shmul, are you happy?"
This question brought before the tailor's eyes a vision of all his
sufferings.
"Ai! Ai! Let not my worst enemy be as happy as I am. The skin sticks
to my bones, and my heart is full of pain."
A deep sigh, from the corner of the room, seemed to re-echo the
tailor's sorrowful outburst.
Meir turned round, and seeing a big shadowy figure in the corner,
asked, "Who is that?"
Shmul nodded his head plaintively and waved his hands.
"It is the carrier, Johel, come to see me. We have known each other a
long time."
At the same time a tall, heavy man came into the light, and
approached the two. Johel was powerfully built, but he looked broken
down and troubled. His jacket, without sleeves, was dirty and ragged,
his bare feet cut and bruised, the fiery red hair matted, and the
mouth swollen. There was something defiant in his looks, and yet he
seemed as if he could not look anybody straight in the face. He went
near the table to take a pinch of onion to season the bread he was
holding in his hand.
"Meir," he said, "you are an old acquaintance. I drove your uncle
Raphael when he went to fetch you, a poor little orphan, and I drove
you and him to Szybow."
"I have seen you since," said Meir. "You were a decent carrier then,
and had four horses."
The inmate of the poorhouse smiled.
"It is true," he said; "bad luck pursued me. I wanted to make a great
geschaft (business), but it did not turn out as I thought it would,
and then another misfortune befell me."
"The second misfortune, Johel, was a crime. Why did you take the
horses out of the gentleman's stables?"
The questioned man laughed cynically.
"Why did I take them out? I wanted to sell them, and make a lot of
money."
Shmul shook his head pityingly.
"Ah! ah!" he sighed. "Johel is a poor man--a very poor man. He has
been in prison three years, and now cannot find work, but is obliged
to seek shelter in the poorhouse."
Johel sighed deeply, but soon raised his head almost defiantly.
"That cannot be helped," he said. "Perhaps I shall soon see my way to
make a big profit."
The words of the vagrant recalled to Meir's mind the short interview
he had witnessed at the window of the poorhouse between Johel and
Jankiel Kamionker. At the same time, he was struck by the expression
of the tailor's face, which twitched all over as if under the
influence of great excitement. His eyes sparkled and his hands
trembled.
"Who knows," he exclaimed, "what may happen in the future? Those that
are poor one day may become rich the next. Who knows? The poor tailor
Shmul may yet build a house on the Market Square, and set up in
business for himself."
Meir smiled sadly. The groundless hopes of these poor outcasts
stirred his compassion. He looked absently around, and through the
windows at the fields beyond.
"You, Shmul," he said, "will certainly not build big houses; nor you,
Johel, make heavy profits. Is it to be thought of? You are too many,
and there is not enough for you all. I sometimes think that if you
left these narrow, dirty streets, and looked about in the world, you
might find a better way of living; even if you worked like peasants
on the soil your life would be easier."
He said this in an absent way, not so much addressing the two men
before him as the noisy crowd without. But when Shmul heard these
words, he twice jumped into the air, and twisted his cap upon his
head.
"Morejne!" he cried out, "what ugly words come from your lips.
Morejne, do you wish to turn Israel upside down?"
"Shmul," said Meir angrily, "it is true. When I look at your misery,
and the misery of your families, I should like to turn things upside
down."
"Ai! ai!" cried the impressible and lively Shmul, holding his head
with both hands. "I would not believe what the people said of you,
and called them liars; but now I see myself that you are a bad
Israelite, and the covenant and customs of your forefathers are no
longer dear to you."
Meir started, and drew himself up.
"Who dares to say that I am a bad Israelite?" he exclaimed.
Shmul's excited face took a quieter but more solemn expression, and
he came close to Meir. Nobody would hear him, as the inmates of the
room had gone into the street, and Johel retired into his corner to
finish his meal. All the same, he spoke in an impressive whisper, as
if about to disclose a terrible secret.
"Morejne, it is no use asking who said it. People whisper, like the
leaves on a tree. Who is to say which special leaf has whispered, or
which mouth? Everybody speaks ill of you. They say you break the
Sabbath, read accursed books, sing abominable songs, and incite young
men to rebellion, that you do not pay due respect to the learned and
wealthy members of the community, and,"--here he seemed to hesitate,
and added in a still lower voice--"and that you live in friendship
with the Karaitish girl."
Meir listened like one turned to stone. He had grown very pale, and
his eyes were flashing.
"Who dames to say that?" he repeated in a choking voice.
"Morejne!" replied Shmul, waving both hands, "you were sent for a
week into the Bet-ha-Midrash to do penance. When the poor people in
this street heard of it, there was a great commotion. Some wanted to go
to your grandfather Saul and to the Rabbi to ask them not to put you to
shame. The woodcutter Judel wanted to go, the carrier Baruch--well, the
tailor Shmul, too. But soon afterwards people began to talk, and we heard
why you had been punished; then we remained quiet, and said to each
other: He is good and charitable, never proud with poor people, and has
helped us often in our misery; but if he keeps not the covenant, his
grandfather Saul is right to punish him."
He stopped at last, out of breath with his rapid speech, and Meir
fixed his penetrating eyes upon him, and asked:
"Shmul, if the learned and wealthy people ordered me to be stoned,
would you also think they were right?"
Shmul retreated a few steps in horror.
"Ugh!" he exclaimed, "why should you think of such terrible things?"
and then added, in a thoughtful voice: "Well, Morejne, if you do not
keep the holy covenant--"
Meir interrupted, in a louder tone:
"And do you know yourself, Shmul, what is the covenant? How much of
it is God's law, and how much people's invention?"
"Hush!" hissed Shmul, in a low voice. "People can hear, and I should
not like anything unpleasant to happen to you under my roof."
Meir looked through the window, and saw several people sitting on the
bench before Shmul's house. They did not seem to listen, but talked
among themselves; at the last words of Meir and Shmul they had raised
their heads and looked through the window with a half-astonished,
half-indignant expression. Meir shrugged his shoulders impatiently,
and without saying good-bye turned towards the door. He had almost
crossed the threshold when Shmul rushed after him, stooped down, and
kissed his hand.
"Morejne," he whispered, "I am sorry for you. Think better of it;
reflect in time, and do not cause scandal in Israel. Your heart is
made of gold, but your head is full of fire. Remember what you did to
the melamed to-day! If you were not under such a terrible cloud,
Morejne," he went on, raising a nervous twitching face up to Meir, "I
should have opened my heart before you, for Shmul is in sore trouble
to-day. I do not know what to do! He may remain poor all his life, or
he may become rich; he may be happy or very wretched. A great fortune
is coming to him, and he is afraid to take it because it looks like
misfortune."
Meir looked in silent amazement at the poor man, who evidently was
trying to convey some secret to him; but at the same time from beyond
the blackened stove came Johel's deep voice:
"Shmul, will you be quiet! Come here, I want you!" The tailor, with
his face troubled, rushed towards him, and Meir, deeply musing, went
out into the street.
It was evident from the clouded mien of the men and their scanty
greetings that he was not so welcome to them as he used to be. Nobody
rose when he passed, or approached him with a friendly word. Only the
child got up as he went by, pushed his hands into the sleeves of his
garment, and followed him.
Walking one behind the other, they crossed a long, narrow street, and
found themselves in the fields which divided Abel Karaim's hut from
the town.
It was now almost dark, but no flickering light was to be seen in
Abel's window. They were not asleep yet, as Meir could see the dark
outline of Golda near the window.
They greeted each other with a silent motion of the head.
"Golda," said Meir, in a low and rapid voice, "have you met with any
unpleasantness lately? Has anybody molested you?"
The girl pondered a little over his question. "Why do you ask me
that, Meir?"
"I was afraid some injury might have been done to you. People have
spread some foolish slander about us."
"I do not mind injury; I have grown up with it. Injury is my sister."
Meir still looked troubled. "Why have you no light burning?" he
asked.
"I have nothing to spin, and zeide prays in darkness."
"And why have you nothing to spin?"
"I carried the yarn to Hannah Witebska and Sarah, Ber's wife, and
they did not give me any more wool."
"They have not insulted you?" asked Meir angrily
Golda was again silent.
"People's eyes often say worse things than tongues," she replied at
last quietly.
Evidently she did not want to complain, or it may be her mind was too
full of other things to heed it much.
"Meir," she said, "you have been in great trouble yourself lately?"
Meir sat down upon the bench outside and leaned his head upon his
hand with a weary sigh.
"The greatest trouble and grief fell upon me to-day when I found that
the people had turned away from me. Their former friendship has
changed into ill feeling, and those that confided in me suspect me
now of evil."
Golda hung her head sadly, and Meir went on:
"I do not know myself what to do. If I follow the promptings of my
heart, my people will hate and persecute me. If I act against my
conscience I shall hate myself and never know peace and happiness.
Whilst I was sitting in the Bet-ha-Midrash I had almost made up my
mind to let things be, and to try and live in peace with everybody;
but when I had left the Ha-Midrash my temper again got the better of
me, and rescuing a poor child I offended the melamed, and through him
the elders and the people. That is what I have done to-day. Arid when
I come to think of it, it seems to me a rash, useless act, as it will
not prevent the melamed from destroying the poor children's health
and intelligence. What can I do? I am alone, young, without a wife
and family, or any position in the world. They can do with me what
they like, and I can do nothing. They will persecute my friends until
they desert me; they have already begun to injure and insult you,
because you gave me your heart and joined your voice with mine on the
meadow. I shall only bring unhappiness to you; perhaps it would be
better to shut my eyes and ears to everything, and live like other
people."
His voice became lower and lower, and more difficult from the
inward struggle with doubts and perplexities.
Both remained silent for a few minutes, when suddenly a strange
noise, seemingly from the other side of the hill, reached their ears.
First it sounded faint and distant, like the passing of many wheels
upon a soft and sandy soil. It grew louder by degrees, till the
grating of wheels and stamping of many human feet could be heard
quite distinctly. All this amidst the dark silence of the night gave
it a mysterious, almost unreal appearance.
Meir stood straight up and listened intently.
"What is that?" he asked.
"What can it be?" said Golda, in her quiet voice.
It seemed as if a great many carts were passing on the other side of
the hill.
"I thought something rumbled and knocked inside the hill," said
Golda.
Indeed, it sounded now like human steps inside the hill, and as if
some heavy weights were being thrown down. There was fear in Meir's
face. He looked intently at Golda.
"Shut the window, and bolt your door," he said quickly; "I will go
and see what it is!"
It was evident that he feared only on her account. "Why should I
fasten either window or door? A strong hand could easily wrench them
open."
Meir went round the base of the hill, and soon found himself on the
other side. What he saw there filled him with the greatest
astonishment.
In a half-circle, upon the sandy furrows, stood a great many carts
laden with casks of all sizes. Around the carts a great many people
were moving--peasants and Jews. The peasants were busy unload-the
carts and rolling the casks into a cavern, which either nature or
human hands had shaped in the hill.
The Jews, who were flitting in and out among the carts and looking at
the casks, or sounding them with their knuckles, finally crowded
round a man who stood leaning his back against the side of the hill,
and a low-voiced, but lively discussion followed. Among the Jews,
Meir recognised several innkeepers of the neighbourhood, and in the
man with whom they conversed, Jankiel Kamionker. The peasants whose
task it was to unload the carts preserved a gloomy silence. A strong
smell of alcohol permeated the air.
The astonishment of Meir did not last long. He began to see the
meaning of the whole scene, and seemingly had made up his mind what
to do, as he moved a few steps in Jankiel Kamionker's direction.
He had not gone far when a huge shadow detached itself from a
projection of the hill and barred the way.
"Where are you going, Meir?" whispered the man.
"Why do you stop me from going, Johel?" replied Meir, as he tried to
push him aside.
But Johel grasped him by the coat tails.
"Do you no longer care for you life?" he whispered. "I am sorry for
you, because you are good and charitable; take warning and go at
once."
"But I want to know what Reb Jankiel and his innkeepers are going to
do with the casks," persisted Meir.
"It does not concern you," whispered Johel. "Let neither your eyes
see nor your ears hear what Reb Jankiel is doing. He is engaged in a
big business; you will only hinder him. Why should you stand in his
way? What will you gain by it? Besides, what can you do against him?"
Meir remained silent, and turned in another direction.
"What can I do?" he whispered to himself; with quivering lips.
Passing near Abel Karaim's hut, he saw Golda still standing at the
window. He nodded to her.
"Sleep in peace."
But she called out to him:
"Meir, here is a child sitting on the floor asleep."
He came nearer and saw, close to the bench where he had been sitting,
the crouching figure of a child.
"Lejbele!" he said, wonderingly. He had not seen the lad, who had
quietly followed him and sat down close to him.
"Lejbele!" repeated Meir, and he put his hand upon the child's head.
He opened a pair of half-unconscious eyes and smiled.
"Why did you come here?" asked Meir, kindly.
The child seemed to collect his thoughts, and then answered:
"I followed you."
"Father and mother will not know what has become of you."
"Father sleeps, and mother sleeps," began Lejbele, rocking his head;
"and the goats are sleeping," he added after a while, and at the
remembrance of those, his best friends, he laughed aloud.
But from Meir's lips the slight smile had vanished.
He sighed and said, as if to himself:
"How shall I act? What ought I to do?"
Golda, with her hands crossed above her head, looked thoughtfully up
to the starry sky. After a while she whispered timidly:
"I will ask zeide; zeide is very learned; he knows the whole Bible by
heart."
"Ask him," said Meir.
The girl turned her head towards the dark interior, and called out:
"Zeide! What does Jehovah command a man to do, from whom the people
have turned away because he will not act against his conscience?"
Abel interrupted his prayers. He was accustomed to his
grand-daughter's inquiries, and to answer them.
He seemed to ponder a few minutes, and then in his quavering but
distinct voice, replied:
"Jehovah says: 'I made you a prophet, a guardian over Israel! Hear my
words and repeat them to the people. If you do this, I shall call you
a faithful servant; if you remain silent, on your head be the woes of
Israel.'"
The old voice became silent, but Meir listened still, with glowing
eyes. Then he pointed into the dark room and said:
"He has said the truth! Through his mouth has spoken the old covenant
of Moses, the one true covenant."
Tears gleamed in Golda's eyes; but Meir saw them not, so deeply was
he absorbed in thoughts which fired his whole being. He gently bent
his head before the girl and went away.
She remained at the open window. Her bearing was quiet, but silent
tears one after another rolled down her thin face.
"They beheaded the prophet Hosea, and drove the prophet Jeremiah out
of Jerusalem," she whispered.
At a distance from the hut, Meir raised his face to heaven:
"Rabbi Akiba died in great tortures for his convictions," he
murmured.
Golda's eyes followed him still though she could see him no longer;
and folding her hands, she murmured:
"Like as Ruth said to Naomi, I wilt say to the light of my soul:
'Whither thou goest I will go; where thou diest, I will die!'"
In this way these two children, thoroughly imbued with the old
history and legends of Israel, which represented to them all earthly
knowledge, drew from them comfort and courage.