Busie is a name; it is the short for Esther-Liba: Libusa: Busie. She is
a year older than I, perhaps two years. And both of us together are no
more than twenty years old. Now, if you please, sit down and think it
out for yourself. How old am I, and how old is she? But, it is no
matter. I will rather tell you her history in a few words.
My older brother, Benny, lived in a village. He had a mill. He could
shoot with a gun, ride on a horse, and swim like a devil. One summer he
was bathing in the river, and was drowned. Of him they said the proverb
had been invented: "All good swimmers are drowned." He left after him
the mill, two horses, a young widow, and one child. The mill was
neglected; the horses were sold; the young widow married again, and went
away, somewhere, far; and the child was brought to us.
The child was Busie.
* * *
That my father loves Busie as if she were his own child; and that my
mother frets over her as if she were an only daughter, is readily
understood. They look upon her as their comfort in their great sorrow.
And I? Why is it that when I come from "_cheder_," and do not find Busie
I cannot eat? And when Busie comes in, there shines a light in every
corner. When Busie talks to me, I drop my eyes. And when she laughs at
me I weep. And when she....
* * *
I waited long for the dear good Feast of Passover. I would be free then.
I would play with Busie in nuts, run about in the open, go down the hill
to the river, and show her the ducks in the water. When I tell her, she
does not believe me. She laughs. She never believes me. That is, she
says nothing, but she laughs. And I hate to be laughed at. She does not
believe that I can climb to the highest tree, if I like. She does not
believe that I can shoot, if I have anything to shoot with. When the
Passover comes--the dear good Passover--and we can go out into the free,
open air, away from my father and mother, I shall show her such tricks
that she will go wild.
* * *
The dear good Passover has come.
They dress us both in kingly clothes. Everything we wear shines and
sparkles and glitters. I look at Busie, and I think of the "Song of
Songs" that I learnt for the Passover, verse by verse:
"Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair; thou hast doves'
eyes within thy locks; thy hair is as a flock of goats, that appear from
mount Gilead.
"Thy teeth are like a flock of sheep that are even shorn, which come up
from the washing; whereof every one bear twins, and none is barren among
them.
"Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and thy speech is comely; thy
temples are like a piece of pomegranate within thy locks."
Tell me, please, why is it that when one looks at Busie one is reminded
of the "Song of Songs"? And when one reads the "Song of Songs," Busie
rises to one's mind?
* * *
A beautiful Passover eve, bright and warm.
"Shall we go?" asks Busie. And I am all afire. My mother does not spare
the nuts. She fills our pockets. But she makes us promise that we will
not crack a single one before the "_Seder_." We may play with them as
much as we like. We run off. The nuts rattle as we go. It is beautiful
and fine out of doors. The sun is already high in the heavens, and is
looking down on the other side of the town. Everything is broad and
comfortable and soft and free, around and about. In places, on the hill
the other side of the synagogue, one sees a little blade of grass, fresh
and green and living. Screaming and fluttering their wings, there fly
past us, over our heads, a swarm of young swallows. And again I am
reminded of the "Song of Songs" I learnt at school:
"The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is
come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land."
I feel curiously light. I imagine I have wings, and can rise up and fly
away.
* * *
A curious noise comes from the town, a roaring, a rushing, a tumult. In
a moment the face of the world is changed for me. Our farm is a
courtyard, our house is a palace. I am a prince, Busie a princess. The
logs of wood that lie at our door are the cedars and firs of the "Song
of Songs." The cat that is warming herself in the sun near the door is a
roe, or a young hart; and the hill on the other side of the synagogue is
the mountain of Lebanon. The women and the girls who are washing and
scrubbing and making everything clean for the Passover are the daughters
of Jerusalem.