neglect the other ceremonial duties of his religion without being
strongly criticized or mildly cursed. Relieving pain and saving life
were naturally placed above the law; so Dr. Blau, the best physician of
that whole district, travelled in his carriage on the Sabbath, and when
beyond the town boundaries had even been known to light a cigar.
Although this sin was unforgiven, the community did not dare bring the
doctor to account, for indeed, he was not only a good physician, but a
good Jew in the best sense of the word. He was loyal to his race in
spite of the fact that his profession took him into the best Gentile
homes, where his skill and sympathetic spirit broke down race barriers,
and he was accepted as an equal. His wife and the other members of his
family shared in this immunity from religious observances and took more
liberties than he, in spite of the fact that travelling on the Sabbath
and non-attendance at the synagogue were not made necessary by their
errands of mercy. As they wished to share in the larger social
opportunities enjoyed by the head of the house, the children were not
sent to the Jewish school, but had French and English governesses. They
were taught all the social graces including dancing, but were rarely
able to make use of their accomplishments, for Gentile society was
practically closed to them, and Judaism had no society. It was a simple
democracy in which the pious and righteous alone were exalted, and they
did not dance, neither did they speak French or English.
The most ambitious member of the family was the "Gnaedige Frau Doktorin"
as she loved to be called, and a gentle soul like the doctor--an
idealist from the top of his bald head down to his toes--yielded all too
readily to her scheme of bringing up the family in such a way as to
separate it from Judaism and the Jews without in any way uniting it to
another religious group. In a measure at least, the "Gnaedige Frau
Doktorin" succeeded in her plans, for the young Gentile snobs did not
seriously object to visiting her well-appointed home, to eating her
cakes and drinking her coffee, flirting with Adèle, her beautiful
daughter, or even to leading her son astray, if he needed any leading in
that uncertain direction.
The son left little or no impression upon my mind--no more than a chilly
blast of air or a passing unpleasant odour; not so with his sister
Adèle. She was more than twice my age; all the Orient had been educated
out of her face and form, but it lingered in her eyes and burned in her
passionate nature. I often passed the house of the doctor and caught
many a glimpse of its luxuriant interior. I nearly always saw Adèle at
the piano and stopped to listen. She rarely spoke to me, for she had
been trained not to speak to Jews of whom she was supposed not to be
one. She played with vigour and feeling, her music soothed me and spoke
to me as nothing else could, and I lingered by her window often and
long. One day, shortly after I had been bereft of my American friends,
she played and sang Schubert's Serenade, and I well remember the hot
tears rolling over my cheeks as those mellow notes struck at every one
of my sore heart-strings. Strange to say, there were tears in her eyes
too when she came to the window to cool her glowing cheeks, and when she
saw me crying, my sympathetic emotion naturally drew us together. Before
she closed the window she said: "Come in any time you want to, little
boy, and I will sing and play for you."
There was a soft cushioned divan upon which she always asked me to sit
when I came, and I soon regarded it as my rightful place. I never taste
any of the luxuries of life without recalling the first time I sank onto
that cushioned seat after sliding to it over the highly polished floor.
I do not believe that I could have been much inspiration to her, except
perhaps as she saw my face light up at her joyous notes, or saw tears
in my eyes when, with her soft alto voice, she sang the sadder German
songs for which I especially yearned. I was a "melancholy Dane"--as I
think all children are whose experience has outrun their years.
One winter's evening when I called unexpectedly--for my visits were
always in the daytime--I found my seat occupied by a young man. Other
eyes than mine watched Adèle's skillful fingers and looked at her as I
had never seen a man look at a woman. He was the postmaster's assistant,
a Slavic youth belonging to a rich peasant family. He had entered
government service by virtue of his father's money and the fact that he
became a Magyar, half-traitor to his race, and wholly conscious of it.
He drew me to him on the cushioned seat and said something that made
Adèle smile. I blushed, became uncomfortable, and ran out of the room as
fast as the slippery floor would permit.
For a long time after that I did not stop at Adèle's window. A sort of
boyish jealousy kept me away, and besides, she now played only the
joyous songs of her repertoire, for which I did not especially care. It
may have been a long time or it may have been but a few weeks--time
meant little to me then--when, in passing the house one afternoon, I
heard her play again one of my favourites. I stopped but did not
cry--for music had lost some of its mystery. When she had finished she
saw me and came to the window and I noticed that she had been crying.
She closed the window without speaking to me, which hurt me deeply, and
the next time I passed I did not stop, in spite of the fact that I heard
her singing "Du holdes Aug"--a most lachrymal song and one of my
favourites. For many days after this the window remained closed and I
heard no more music. At my home they were speaking in whispers about
Adèle. I did not understand, but the assistant postmaster was involved.
Whenever the gray-haired doctor passed, and mother saw him, she said:
"Dear man, he is carrying a load." When I asked what the load was that
he carried, she said, "You are too little, you can't understand."
In spite of the fact that there was no music, I looked into the window
every time I passed, which was oftener than necessary, for I wanted to
see Adèle. Weeks and weeks elapsed and I caught no glimpse of her;
indeed, I never saw any one in the room. One day, after a fruitless
search through the window, I met her right at the door, ready for a
walk. I doffed my cap and looked into her face, which had grown thin and
pale. When she saw me she smiled and took my hand. I walked by her
side--not daring to speak. There were two avenues leading out of town,
and both afforded some pleasure, for they were shaded. Both led to the
cemeteries, one to the Jewish God's Acre and one to where the Gentiles
rested; although a high stone wall separated the dead who died in the
faith of the Church of Rome from those who professed the faith of
Luther. These walks were our Lovers' Lane as well as the Via Dolorosa.
Here troths were plighted, lovers kissed or quarrelled, and here weeping
mourners followed the bier. Holding my hand firmly in hers, as if she
needed support, Adèle and I walked out through the Allè, as this
promenade was called. Under the gnarled acacia trees scattered benches
stood, and at the further end, the Jewish cemetery began. Adèle sat down
on one of the benches, drew a letter from her pocket and wept bitterly
as she read it. Moved by her tears, I wept with her. At last she rose
and we went to the God's Acre. It was not an inviting place, this
"_Getot_" as the Jews called it; for grave crowded grave, and one
moss-grown stone leaned upon the other. Nowhere was there a straight
line, a curve that suggested beauty, a plot of ground which spoke of
care. The Jewish cemetery was outwardly as confused and individualistic
as the Jewish community; but beneath the surface what perfect harmony
and order! A Gentile woman kept the gate and provided vessel and towel
for the ceremonial washing. No visitor leaves the abode of the dead
without this purification. The woman watched our entrance with
interest, for she did not provide the water and the towel for nothing.
The Jewish cemetery is hilly. On top of the hill they bury the pious and
the learned; at the bottom the unlettered and the very poor. We climbed
the slope and sat down on one of the graves. Adèle stared at me and at
the headstones, nervously pulled weeds from the ground, then suddenly
left me and walked rapidly away.
That evening I heard them say at home that a rich Jewish landowner was
coming to see Adèle, and that they would be engaged, in order to prevent
her marrying the Gentile. This interested me so much that I met the
omnibus the next morning and had my first look at the stranger. He was a
rather clumsy, homely, honest-looking man of nearly thirty years, whose
gait and gesture smacked of the soil, and who, in spite of his good
clothing, showed lack of breeding. A marriage agent was with him, and
they went directly to the doctor's house. The same evening it was
reported that the engagement was announced and that the marriage would
take place in six weeks.
I was present at the ceremony. It was performed according to Jewish
custom, in the open air. The synagogue yard was crowded, and the
busybodies talked and talked. They really had something to talk about,
for the bride had to be fairly lifted from the carriage, and the doctor
had grown years older. The pompous "Gnaedige Frau Doktorin" alone held
her head erect and did not weep.
An orthodox Jewish wedding ceremony is a sadly solemn occasion. The
groom wears his shroud and the bride's head is covered by an
impenetrable veil. The rabbi reads the ceremony in the Hebrew Chaldaic
dialect which no one understands, the cantor chants a solemn tune and
the parents walk about the bridal couple weeping and praying. Never
before was there a wedding in our town so solemn as this, and when the
bride lifted her veil to drink from the ceremonial cup, her face looked
like that of a corpse.
The next morning, long before daybreak, sounds of weeping and
lamentation came from the house of the doctor. We heard the mad shriek
of an insane woman, then a man lifted his voice in a heart-broken wail,
and all who went to the door and all who heard the cause, wept with
them. The old doctor, broken-hearted, stood by his daughter's bed,
holding her lifeless hand in his; thus he stood, until the pious women
came to prepare her for burial. When the pale morning grew bright and
the Gentile community wakened to its tasks and duties, a shot was heard
in the post-office. Through the crowd gathered there, an old peasant and
his wife forced their way. Beside the desk where he had worked, lay
their son--with a bullet in his brain.
XVIII
THE FIRST APOSTASY
We who lived in the town were the envied of our race who lived in the
scattered villages among the mountains. We had the synagogue, the centre
of spiritual and social life, and we had the school. In spite of the
fact that many of our Jews hated one another because of business
competition, there was a community interest which held all of them
together--making them, in a measure, share the common joys and certainly
the common griefs.
We had no aristocracy except that of piety and learning and in this the
poor excelled the rich; so that life, such as it was, with its dangers
and drudgeries, was shared life--and thus became bearable.
The village Jew had cause to envy us. He lived isolated among an alien
and often hostile population, whose social pleasures he could not share,
even had he cared to. If he lived near enough, he came to the synagogue
each Sabbath, taking steep climbs over many rough miles; but more often
he could come only on the holy days, for distances were great and the
means of communication difficult. The term "Village Jew" was synonymous
with crudity and ignorance; in fact, the life of such an one did not
differ much from his peasant neighbour, except in a few important
particulars. The peasant _drank palenka_. The Jew _sold_ it to him; the
peasant consequently grew poorer and poorer while the wealth of the
sober Jew increased correspondingly. The peasant had no ambitions beyond
his meat and drink, while those of the Jew were boundless, and although
he could not achieve much more than the accumulation of moderate wealth,
the future of his children was assured to such a degree that he did not
fear their being condemned to the life of a "Village Jew."
The children came to school in town, which was no little burden upon our
community, but a burden which was gladly borne. In spite of the fact
that the "Village Jews" were better off than the peasants, many of them
could not afford to pay their children's tuition and board, which the
town Jews provided by free scholarships and by a very unique scheme of
"boarding 'round."
At the beginning of the school year, parents went to the homes of the
well-to-do and secured in each a certain day in the week on which the
child would be a guest at table. This provided a variety of boarding
places; a fact which had obvious advantages and disadvantages.
Our home was open to this invasion Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays,
and it was the "Sabbath boy" as we called him, whose pathetic career had
a lasting influence upon my life.
He came from the village of "Deephole," a Slavic community, so hidden in
the hills that not even its church steeple was visible from the main
road. His father was a whiskey distiller and usurer, and the home smelt
of vile liquor, which the peasants consumed in great quantities on the
premises. On Sundays it was the scene of drunken brawls, which followed
the weekly dance. The boy's bed was underneath the table around which
his father's guests drank and made merry, and when the room was vacated,
which was usually late at night, he went to sleep, breathing until
morning the filthy, alcohol-laden air.
Nor were his waking hours much happier. His father, who was quick
tempered, believed and practiced King Solomon's advice to parents; while
the mother did not have sufficient strength of character to shield her
children from his brutal assaults.
When the boy came to town, he came into a new world and when he came to
our home it was indeed to him a Sabbath of delight; for he was a growing
boy who never had got enough to eat and our table was bountifully
supplied. He was an ill-favoured, freckled, hook-nosed lad, extremely
sensitive and shy. He never answered any questions beyond yes, or no, as
if loath to lose any time from the process of filling up.
The Jew scarcely ever expects to be thanked for favours extended, so we
were not at all astonished when, after feeding the Sabbath boy for four
years, he dropped out with no word of acknowledgment, and another
half-starved village child took his place.
Rabbinic law proscribed that walking on the Sabbath be restricted to
2,000 yards from the synagogue. These were marked out by wires,
stretched across rather frail looking poles.
How many generations of children had been hemmed in by these rusty wires
I do not know; but the beckoning fields in the spring, the butterflies,
the corn-flowers and the poppies were mightier than the rabbinic law,
and many a time I drew my mother past the boundaries, out into God's
open world. I delighted to watch the peasants at work in the field, and
it took the firm hand of my mother to keep me from going to aid them at
haying time, or when they lifted the heavy sheaves of rye upon their
huge wagons, drawn by white, long-horned oxen. I do not know how many
sins I was guilty of each Sabbath afternoon, for I loved to pluck the
wild flowers and that was a sin repeatedly committed. I whistled secular
tunes which no doubt was another; I ran many godless miles beyond the
boundary, chasing rabbits and often stopping to read inscriptions upon
the Christian shrines.
Ah, me! if only all my sins had left such unstained and pleasant
memories. On these Sabbath walks I drew my mother into the villages
which lay around us, and from which came our "day-eaters" as the charity
boarders were called. We often stopped to inquire for them; but I fear
my interest was wholly selfish, for invariably we were offered some
refreshments, and in spite of my æsthetic delights in these Sabbath
afternoon walks, they made me hungry.
Once we went to the village of Deephole. The wretched _isbas_ crowded
about the village church. Pigs, babies and geese bathed indiscriminately
in the muddy pond; wrinkled, toothless old women were breaking flax,
while drunken peasants reeled out of the inn towards which we did not
need to inquire our way.
Two rickety steps led up to the door, on which was a faded sign, stating
that the government gave license for the sale of tobacco. A shrill bell
announced our coming when we opened the door. The air was heavy from
ill-smelling tobacco smoke, which helped to make the other stenches at
least bearable. A wooden enclosure, reaching from the beaten earth floor
almost to the ceiling, fenced in the bar, where a Gentile girl measured
out _palenka_, for on the Sabbath a Jew may not engage in business;
hence the proxy. Watching her, as an eagle watches her prey, was the
Jewess, her smooth false front and clean dress being signs of the holy
day.
When she recognized my mother she fell weeping upon her neck; mother
wept too, although not knowing why and I began to whimper and cry in
sympathy. The Gentile bar maid took an ancient looking stick of candy
out of an open jar and, giving it to me, assuaged my grief. The Jewess
locked the bar, temporarily suspending business, and drew my mother into
the adjoining living-room, a third of which was occupied by a bake-oven,
which served as bed for a fair share of the large family. On top of the
oven lay the husband--paralyzed. His black eyes seemed to be the only
members of his body that he could move and they were pathetic in their
mute helplessness and appeal for sympathy. I caught but snatches of the
story as it was told my mother. It was all about our "Sabbath boy." "He
ran away from home--the father, God forgive him, was too hard on him."
Not a line came from him--not a sign of life. When the peasants came
home from their annual pilgrimage to the Shrine at Maria's Bosom, they
told how they had seen a freckled, hook-nosed acolyte there, who looked
just like the little "_schid_" that ran away. The same evening his
father started for the town, walking, without stopping and without
eating. Day after day the mother waited but no word came from her
husband. She closed her home and started after him, taking the children
with her. When they came to the town and inquired for him, she was led
to a hospital in which Sisters of Charity walked about noiselessly. "So
kind they were to think of it," and they took her gently to a cot on
which lay the motionless body of her husband. All he said, and that in a
laboured, painful whisper, was: "Hashel has been baptized." There the
story ended, and as various things needed to be done for the sick man,
mother did them.
Then she took my hand and led me back. Not once did she permit me to
pluck a flower, or chase a rabbit, and for a good many Sabbaths after
that I did not go beyond the rabbinic limit.
XIX
A SECTARIAN CONTROVERSY
Eight o'clock on a winter's evening. Officially it was night and the
silence was broken by the night watchman's horn--a long, tubular
instrument, made from the bark of a tree. The official night lasted
until four o'clock in the morning, and from 8 P. M. to 4 A. M. the hours
were more or less regularly announced by these same doleful blasts. They
were intended to serve various purposes. First, of course, to assure old
and young that the arm of the law watched over them and that its eyes
were open; which, however, was not always true. Secondly, to warn evil
intentioned persons; which no doubt it accomplished, for the blasts
could be heard miles away. Lastly, they were intended to indoctrinate
all of us, religiously and patriotically; for after each hour's call,
the watchman sang a song which varied much according to whether Roman
Catholics or Lutherans were in power; whether Slav or Magyar held the
reigns of local government.
The song as I first knew it was something like this, and was sung in
Slavic.
"The day has gone, the night is here,
The work is done, oh! do not fear.
Saint Florian your house will keep,
Saint Johan he will guard your sleep,
Saint Nepornuk will watch the streams.
The saints, they all will pray for you,
The Virgin intercede for you,
Now go to sleep, the Lord's awake,
And plan no sin, for Jesus' sake."
I am sure there were two closing lines which summed up the prevailing
theology, but I do not remember them.
For many years, this orthodox song put us to sleep, and a similar one,
just as piously solicitous, awakened us, and neither Lutheran nor Jew
objected to its Roman Catholic phraseology. With the general
nationalistic awakening, however, there was a closer drawing of
religious and racial lines, and when the town elected a Lutheran
Burgomaster, he appointed a night watchman who also was a Lutheran.
While there was no change in the blasts from the wooden horn our slumber
song was robbed of its poetry. Into the night the watchman called a few
cold verses in which neither Saint nor Virgin had a part. Hardly had he
thus boldly shown his departure from the traditions of the past, when a
well-aimed stone struck his lantern and another one his head. He was
stripped of his halberd, the symbol of his office, and left unconscious
through many an hour, while the town remained unguarded against its
invisible foes.
The next day, the Burgomaster was besieged by requests from the priest
and many important citizens of the town to reinstate the Catholic
watchman; but this he refused to do. The same night the watchman was
guarded by the _Kisbir_ until past midnight, and was unmolested as,
protected, he blew the hours. He did not blow the waking hour, for after
his guard left him his Catholic enemies fell upon him again and he was
too badly beaten to rise from the ground. That day he resigned his
office and the Catholic watchman patrolled the streets. It was a great
relief, even to a non-partisan Jew, to hear the skillful blast and the
good-night song with all its saintly flourishes. I went to sleep at
nine, but no one heard the ten o'clock horn. The watchman was beaten
insensible by the Lutherans, who were practicing the Mosaic law--"an eye
for an eye." For many weeks the battle raged, until a compromise was
made. The watchman was to sing his Catholic song only in front of the
priest's house, that of the _Pany_ and a few other dignitaries. The
Lutheran song was to be given before the Lutheran parsonage and such
houses as he knew to be safely heretical. He was allowed full liberty in
the Jewish part of the town. This worked fairly well the first and
second nights, but the third night, many of the citizens met to
celebrate the peace achieved, and the night watchman drank first with a
Catholic and then with a Protestant and when he went out into the night
he blew his blasts erratically; faintly at first, afterwards as if not
quite sure of the number blown--then he began to sing--the full old
version of his song--in front of the Lutheran pastor's house. Recovering
himself, he sang it in its abbreviated and rationalistic form, on the
market-place and in front of the _Pany's_ house.
At nine o'clock he was surrounded by a crowd of loafers, who led him up
and down the town, blowing his nine blasts, and after each one giving
full swing to the old time song which now had become a battle-cry. At
ten a larger crowd rescued him from amidst his co-religionists, and
after each blast made him sing the Lutheran version; at eleven o'clock
they still held him. At twelve the Magyar youths took him in hand and
compelled him to sing a Magyar song. They kept him until two, when the
combined Lutheran forces took possession of him and at four he was
permitted to waken the already sleepless town. The next night the
watchers and defenders of the faith heard the eight too hoos, but no
song. Nine o'clock and again the ominous silence; at ten an awful howl
arose, which came from Catholics, Lutherans, Magyars and Slavs. A
fearful thing had happened--the Burgomaster had appointed a Jewish night
watchman and before morning every window in every Jewish home was
broken--a pious and gentle protest against this insult to Christendom.
The Jew threw away his horn and halberd and another took his place, but
he had solved the problem. Night was never again officially announced by
a song; all one heard was the eight doleful blasts and then silence
until it was time to blow the other hours. That was the first time in my
life that I thought seriously about the problems of Christian unity.
XX
THE HOUSE OF THE POOR