meaning is obvious, yet the people "beyond the hill" are strangers and
foreigners; here home ends and the world begins. From the hilltop the
whole valley lay in panoramic view--the town, the clinging villages, the
winding river and the encircling mountains--this was home. I knew each
path and roadway; knew, by the sound of the bell, the village and church
from which it came; sheep and cattle were of a certain breed; horses
were harnessed in a peculiar way; the peasants of each village had their
own picturesque style of garment and I knew at a glance each man's
habitat. Nobody or nothing was strange to me. The whole valley was home
and I felt the gripping sense of homesickness as I viewed it for the
last time. I could have embraced it all--yet in only a small spot of
that small valley had I moved with any sense of freedom.
Our street was plainly visible from the hilltop. The "_Porte_" or
"_Forte_" as it became corrupted--was a gorge-like, bottle-shaped
street, the narrow end of which was the gate of the Jews, now the
toll-gate over which the _Kisbir_ presides. Through it came my ancestor,
Reb Abraham Bolsover, with a bundle on his back containing sacred books
and worldly goods. In the one was his _life_, in the other his _living_,
and between barter and the study of God's law his life moved, never
without a struggle. When they carried him out of that same street to the
God's Acre, they said of him that he died poor in possessions but rich
in good works.
Through that gate my father went out at the call of his Fatherland, and
when they carried him to his resting-place they made great lamentation.
He left to his widow five children--one yet unborn, money enough to keep
them from want and a name which always stood for self-sacrifice and
devotion.
These ancestors of whom I know, harmed no man and must have done some
good; yet they were regarded as aliens and could not move freely beyond
a certain boundary. The _Porte_ was our home and this diminutive Ghetto
shut us in--or shut us out. In later days I discovered that it did both.
I have looked down from many a hilltop since that morning; from the
ruins of Athens, the hills of Rome, the mountains round about Jerusalem,
the sky-scrapers of the New World metropolis, and I have discovered that
one's world, no matter how large or how small, is full of compartments.
Everywhere people shut themselves in and shut others out; they are moved
by what they call class-feeling, race-prejudice, religious intolerance;
but it is all of a kind, only labelled differently according to the
circumstances. The main lines of our divisions were visible from the
little hilltop in that little corner of the world and were plowed into
the consciousness of the people through hundreds and thousands of years
of conflict--and alas! they bore sacred symbols.
The synagogue, with its oriental minarets, was crowded in among the
encroaching houses of the Ghetto; the Roman Catholic church, with its
severe buttresses, bulbous steeple and shining cross, occupied the
centre of the town, dominating the landscape; the Protestant church,
with its ugly, square tower, over which a rooster weather-vane indicated
the shifting winds, stood at the edge of the town, close to green fields
and pastures.
Once my brother by vaccination, wishing to ingratiate himself, told me
he believed the Jews were the trunk of the tree, the Catholics were the
branches, and the Protestants were the leaves which the wind shook and
carried away and scattered. That was good news to me and I rewarded him
with a big piece of bread and butter. After it was safe in his grasp he
said: "Yes, the Jews are the trunk, but it is old and decayed, and the
Lord has grafted a new tree upon another trunk." Then he ran away as
fast as he could, and I hoped that kind Providence would let him stumble
and fall; but Providence seemed to be on his side. Nevertheless, that
was good news to me--news which no doubt he had heard some time in
church. It was a truth which expressed relationship, but it was one of
which the synagogue seemed quite unconscious.
Our rabbi's chief function seemed to be, to determine for the housewives
whether a pot in which meat had been cooked might still be used if a
drop of milk fell into it; whether a goose whose fat leg showed a bruise
must be sold to the Gentiles or whether it was _kosher_ for the Sabbath
meal, and how the rigid rabbinic laws could be circumvented without
transgression.
Thus, our Sabbath law forbade all manner of work for us and our
servants; but the Gentile servants did light our fires, cook our meals,
and sweep our rooms. "Of course," the rabbi said, "the servants have to
live--they do it for themselves and not for us--we just eat with them."
On the Sabbath no burden must be carried; but one must have a
handkerchief. "Then bind it about your loins and it is part of your
apparel."
"Two thousand yards is the distance one may walk on the Sabbath, but if
I have to walk four thousand--what then?" "Stop at the two-thousand yard
line, put a piece of bread on the ground and say: 'This is where I
live,' then walk two thousand yards more."
Such was the casuistry with which our rabbi's mind was filled. Poor man!
he had to spend his time with "annis and cummin," he had to glorify
trifles and so minimize the real glory. He had so much to say about
rabbi this and rabbi that, and so little of what God said to the seers
and prophets.
This was my early quarrel with the synagogue, although at that time I
could not express myself. First, it made the traditional ceremonials and
observances a law of God. Secondly, it was intolerantly exclusive
against those outside its own pale and those within, who saw the larger
light. Yet memories crowd upon me whenever I see the synagogue from this
hilltop.
The synagogue was at its best on the eve of the Sabbath. Through the
rusty iron gate came its Israel, the fathers and sons; the women being
busy with the evening meal, the best of the week. Israel looked
outwardly renewed. The Sabbath scrubbing was a religious duty; each boy
showed its effects in his clean and glowing face, and he was clothed in
his best garments.
How unconventionally Israel approaches its God, and how democratically!
There is a ceremonial rigidly adhered to, but each man follows it as he
pleases, without regard to harmony or order. There are noise and
confusion; noble psalms are mumbled, pious petitions are repeated
mechanically and only the Sabbath hymn has melody. It is sung by the
reader, but his is no easy task with such an individualistic
congregation. Some one cuts short his crescendo, another checks his
flight as he approaches the high C, and when he imagines himself near
Heaven's gate, a third pulls him to earth by a threefold Amen, five
minutes ahead of schedule time.
No one thinks it out of place to discuss the affairs of the day,
especially the affairs of some neighbour. Strangers who happen in are
weighed in the balance and their moral avoirdupois discussed, as is
their fashionable or unfashionable clothing. Business is transacted on
Sabbath eve; but this, of course, _sub rosa_.
Our pew adjoined that of a grain dealer. Hardly had he thrashed his way
through the Ninety-fifth Psalm--"Come let us sing unto the Lord"--than
he said to his neighbour, who was just catching breath for the
Ninety-sixth Psalm: "_Nu_, how was the grain market in Hodowin?" "God's
enemies shall have grain to sell now!"--was the pious answer (business
is never unqualifiedly good, to the Jew). Then both hastened through the
Ninety-sixth Psalm, a few seconds behind the rest, yet setting a pace to
bring them out far ahead, the grain dealer skipping the last lines.
"Will you sell?" he asked. "Sell on the Sabbath?" and then through the
Ninety-seventh and Ninety-eighth Psalms without interruption. Here the
Twenty-ninth Psalm is repeated. How did I know, how _could_ I know, that
this is a Psalm in which some great soul saw the glory of Jehovah in
nature?
"The voice of Jehovah is upon the waters: the God of Glory thundereth:
the Lord _is_ upon many waters.
The voice of the Lord is powerful; the voice of the Lord is full of
majesty.
The voice of the Lord breaketh the cedars; yea, the Lord breaketh the
cedars of Lebanon.
He maketh them also to skip like a calf; Lebanon and Sirion like a young
unicorn.
The voice of the Lord divideth the flames of fire.
The voice of the Lord shaketh the wilderness; the Lord shaketh the
wilderness of Kadesh.
The voice of the Lord maketh the hinds to calve, and discovereth the
forests; and in His temple doth every one speak of His glory."
Not a word did I understand. It went over their lips like grain through
a threshing-machine, and it was all straw to me. Far more interesting
was the fact that, after the Sabbath hymn, six loads of grain changed
hands, while the congregation repeated this injunction:
"And the children of Israel shall keep the Sabbath throughout their
generations, as an everlasting covenant. Between Me and the children of
Israel is a sign forever; for in six days Jehovah made Heaven and Earth,
and on the seventh day He rested and was refreshed."
The weary service ended, there was no time for gossip; each man and
especially the boys hurried home to the Sabbath meal, which, more than
its religion, keeps so many faithful to Israel.
Our best room was at its best; the whitest linen covered the table, the
brass candlesticks were burnished, mother had blessed the candles and
lighted them, and with her cheery face shining brighter than they shone,
she put her hands upon my head, blessing me.
"God make thee like Ephraim and Manasseh;" and while I did not know just
why, "like Ephraim and Manasseh," it was a blessing just to feel her
hands upon my head. Then with true unction, this High Priestess of
Jehovah repeated:
"May the Lord bless thee and keep thee,
May He cause His face to shine upon thee and be gracious unto thee,
May the Lord lift up His countenance upon thee, and give thee peace."
Still more sweetly she led us in saying: "For He will give His angels
charge over thee, to guard thee in all thy ways. He will guard thy going
out and thy coming in, from now and forevermore."
The thirty-first chapter of Proverbs, which then follows, she never
repeated nor permitted us to read, for it is the praise of the virtuous
woman by her husband, "who praiseth her in the gates." _Her_ husband no
doubt praised _her_ in the Eternal City.
To have given the world the Sabbath is no small achievement for a race,
and the Israel I knew kept its rigorous laws and was rewarded by its
rich blessings.
The _Porte_ was solemnly quiet on Sabbath morning. Every store was
closed, although in later days many a merchant could not resist
receiving the Gentiles' money over his counter, and quiet business was
done behind closed doors. The service of the day began at nine, and the
women's gallery was crowded, while a constant chatter was kept up, much
to the annoyance of the men, who were glad to be able to blame some one
for the disorder.
I remember how indignantly the grain dealer looked up to the gallery and
tried to hush the women into silence, on the very morning after he had
bought six loads of grain between the repetitions of the Ninety-fifth
Psalm and the commandment to keep the Sabbath holy.
The younger men found the encircling gallery very attractive. From it
the young girls looked down upon them; eyes met and there were sweet
smiles and blushes. There the bride stood, the first Sabbath after the
wedding, and if the bridegroom had brought her from abroad, she was
viewed and criticized from all angles; the size of her dowry was
commented upon, her looks, her family and her dress; although a large
dowry "covered a multitude of sins."
From the gallery mothers watched their restless youngsters, and I can
imagine my mother's dear face looking down upon me, often reprovingly.
From here they looked with pride upon their sons, called for the first
time to read the law, on their thirteenth birthday. This gallery was the
Jewish Women's Club; here they discussed in small or large groups the
blessings and pains of motherhood, their own and others' griefs; here
they pitied the orphan and the widow and comforted one another.
The younger boys were admitted to this gallery during the reading of the
law, which seemed very uninteresting to them, for it was all in Hebrew
and chanted in a most monotonous way. But that which preceded it was
very absorbing indeed; it was the sale, practically an auction, of the
privilege of carrying the _Torah_, of "undressing" it, reading small
portions of the law, redressing it and returning it to the Ark. These
privileges were bought and presented to visitors or any one whom one
wished to honour. It was as exciting as any auction sale, only it was
all done without a word's being spoken.
Upon a board with movable letters and figures was announced the peculiar
part of the ceremony for sale. The price advanced at the raising of a
hand or the nodding of a head, and when some rivalry entered into the
sale, the whole congregation watched the proceedings with ill-suppressed
excitement.
The rabbi, the reader and the dignitaries of the congregation approached
the Ark, and that was the one, great, solemn moment. The rich, velvet
curtain was drawn aside; the Ark was opened, and the scrolls of the law
carried in solemn procession around the synagogue. We children left our
pews and crowded close, to kiss the passing scroll.
The white-bearded rabbi looked like one of the priests of old, and I
could easily imagine myself in the Temple on Mount Moriah. This
solemnity was but momentary; those who had the honour of performing the
various ceremonies were called; they pronounced the blessing, quickly
and mechanically a portion of the law was read, and then the readers
made offerings for various charitable purposes. There is no religious or
social function in Israel at which an offering is not made, and
gratitude to Jehovah always expresses itself in gifts.
The sermon followed immediately and while old men listened to the
expounding of the weighty things of the law, women gossiped, children
in the yard played rather boisterously, and the young men talked about
their _affaires d'amour_, much to the hurt of those of us who were old
enough to listen and too young to fully understand.
The Sabbath dinner had a peculiar fragrance, and lingers in one's memory
more, I fear, than the teachings of the synagogue. The meal was prepared
on Friday, and consisted of _Scholeth_. Pork and beans is, to the New
England Puritan, what _Scholeth_ was to his Jewish prototype.
In huge, black pots, the combination of beans and goose was carried to
the communal bake-oven, where for eighteen hours it slowly simmered and
baked, and was ready, piping hot, when the morning service was over. The
pots were nearly all alike, the owner's name or number being marked in
chalk. Once at least it happened that we got the rabbi's _Scholeth_. His
wife was reputed a poor housekeeper, and the _Scholeth_ proved the fact.
When we returned it to its owner we found, much to our dismay, the
rabbinic family getting to the bottom of our own.
In the afternoon, mother and I went visiting, usually among the poor and
sick, and one of the heritages of those visits is a deep sympathy with
human suffering. As I grew older, my uncle took me with him to the
weekly discussions of the law, which were held in an anteroom of the
synagogue.
I remember two questions which I asked on different occasions. One was,
why we were permitted to drink the beer brewed by Gentiles and not the
wine which they pressed. The rabbi's reply was, that we were not
permitted to drink the wine, because wine is used for social occasions
and there would be danger of contact with the Gentiles. When I replied
that beer was used for the same purpose, I was told that beer was not
brewed in Talmudic times, and consequently could not be forbidden.
In a German translation of the prophets, I had read the first chapter of
Isaiah. I felt its vigorous denunciation, I caught its first glimpse of
true religion, and when I asked why the rabbi commanded and approved
what Isaiah condemned, he told me that the prophetic writings were
beneath the law, and that he who kept all the points of the law was
greater than they. I never enjoyed these discussions, but now I wish I
would have had the patience to sit through them, if only to fasten fully
upon my mind one such discussion.
I do remember the stuffy room, for since that time I have sat in it with
the new rabbi, who has studied theology in Germany and knows more and
preaches less than he believes.
The old rabbi was genuinely orthodox; his Sabbath cap and velvet gown
were full of lint and dust; his head was unkempt, for to comb it would
have been labour. He sat in a dilapidated grandfather's chair and before
him lay the old Talmud; huge, forbidding looking volumes, a mixture of
truth and superstition; a Magna Charta, bills of sale into slavery;
wings and chains, the sublime and the ridiculous; but to him every
sentence was sacred, every letter inspired of God. Around him sat the
pious men of the town and such of their sons as were inclining or being
inclined towards the study of the law.
"What did rabbi so and so reply to rabbi this and that?"
Back and forth went questions and answers, like the flying shuttle
through woof and warp. It seemed trivial, much of this; but after all,
to them those things were vital--more vital certainly than the
occupation of their impious neighbours, who spent the Sabbath in idle
gossip. Certainly it was more elevating than the way most of their
Gentile brethren spent their Sabbaths. They danced, drank, fought and
staggered home to beat their wives, or do worse, if they were not
married. After all, Israel's Sabbath was Israel's salvation. It ennobled
him, kept alive the spiritual, and prevented him from utterly falling a
victim to Mammon.
I have no quarrel with the synagogue except this:--that it never
revealed to me the _riches_ of Judaism. It showed me its beggarly edge,
its vulnerable trivialities, its pathetic pharisaism and its absurd
worship of the letter. That Israel had a mission to the world I never
knew; that Moses and the prophets were names of which the world took
cognizance I never heard; that the Catholic and the Protestant were
feeding from the same spiritual sources which fed us was hidden from me,
and that we all had "one Father" was never revealed to me.
I surmised all this in my boyish way and I searched for that very
thing--through many painful years; but when I discovered it, I had left
the synagogue behind me and there is no way back.
XXIV
THE CHURCH WITH THE CROSS
The cross dominated the landscape; crowning the hilltop stood one,
black, austere, forbidding ... a suffering, emaciated Christ hanging on
the tree. Cut out of white limestone, another shone against the dark
forest guarding its sylvan mysteries. The cross rose above the river,
from the centre pier of the bridge where it vibrated to each shock of
the swift rushing stream; at every turn of the road, on the dividing
line of orchard and meadow, marking the boundaries of fields and
villages, stood the sacred emblem of The Church, itself surmounted by
this Roman gallows of beaten gold, proud symbol and sign of victory!
No one ever told me its meaning, yet I soon learned that it was
something ominous ... terrible; and that because of Him who hung upon it
_we_ suffered and were persecuted.
This I learned by painful experience; for I felt many a lump on my head
raised by the benevolent fists of Gentile youth because I would not look
at the cross and kiss it. On the other hand, my ears were pulled much
too often by my guardian because I _did_ look at it. Once I was all but
choked to death because I would not make the sign of the cross, and
again was threatened by punishment temporal and eternal, because I
carried in my pocket a little crucifix given me by the goose girl in my
race-unconscious days. At that time I regarded it as a toy. It never
repelled me, although as I now analyze my feelings it was to me a symbol
of unforgiveness, something which was angry with me, that I should like
to make up with, yet did not dare approach. It was unpleasant to me, not
because I suffered bodily harm through it, but because it stood aloof
and kept me from enjoying all for which my life hungered. It seemed to
say: "This is a Catholic mountain; this is a Christian river, and these
fields and meadows, these birds and wild flowers are not for you."
Whenever I passed a cross I seemed to hear the Christ saying: "Get out
of here, you little Jewish boy, you crucified Me!" I heard Him say that,
because every Catholic I met seemed to be especially angry with me if we
met before a crucifix or shrine. Even now when walking along those
highways I have the same feeling.
During my childhood I named most of these holy places after some bodily
punishment that I received there. Not long ago I sat in the shadow of an
acacia grove and saw the crucifix of the "bloody nose," as I called it.
I know some beech trees overshadowing a shrine, which I called the
shrine "_Zur Ohrfeige_" a peculiar form of punishment which my
countrymen will readily recognize.
Once, when I shared in Christmas exercises, taking the part of Moorish
King, as I have already told, and was hurled from my high estate, I
received presents and a kiss from the sister of the _Pany_, a woman as
saintly as he was wicked. She carried a rosary with an ivory crucifix to
church with her and the cross lost much of its terror for me because she
was associated with it. Twice, I think, after I took the part of Wise
Man, she sent me at Christmas time a present of russet apples; and while
she never spoke to me again she smiled at me always when in passing I
doffed my cap to her.
There was also a hatter in our town who, it was rumoured, had studied
for the priesthood; he too had a share in reconciling me to the
crucifix. He was the priest's right hand man, assuming all sorts of
parish burdens. On _Corpus Christi_ he carried the large crucifix at the
head of the procession. This holy day was a peculiarly trying one to the
Jewish community, for the Catholic population was enraged when a Jew
refused to bare his head as the crucifix passed.
To keep one's head covered and stand erect in the synagogue was regarded
by us children as a protest against the Christian faith and practice;
while to share in the Christian worship even by the removal of one's
cap, would have been regarded as a most sinful and humiliating act.
The Jews usually drew the shutters, locked the doors and kept out of
sight while the procession passed; but I was lured by the music, the
gaily coloured banners and by all that in a procession appeals to a boy.
I was pushed far to the front and when the head of the procession
approached I stood there erect with covered head and immediately became
the target for well-aimed blows, which sent my cap flying and threw me
violently to the ground. I might have been crushed beneath the feet of
the mob had it not been for the hatter, who, shifting the heavy crucifix
to one hand and supporting it against his body, stooped, lifted me, led
me half around the church and through its open portal; while the bells
rang, pious worshippers sang and priests chanted. The good hatter and
the crucifix thus became closely identified.
That was the first time I had seen the interior of the church on a
festal day. Candles blazed on the altars, banners waved, the organ was
reinforced by blaring trombones and huge brass horns; priests and
acolytes wore their most splendid vestments, and clouds of incense
trailed upward to the loft where pigeons cooed and ventured many a
flight around the awestruck congregation.
I am sure that I worshipped; at least I was uplifted; the crude and
discordant in my nature seemed to leave me and I felt buoyant as if
floating on the air. It was a moment akin to that when, on her
death-bed, the miller's daughter passed her wasted fingers through my
hair and kissed my hot temples.