Let winds blow. Let storms rage. Let the world turn upside down. The old
oak, which has been standing since the creation of the world, and whose
roots reach to God-knows-where--what does he care for winds? What are
storms to him?
The old tree is not a symbol--it is a living being, a man whose name is
Nachman Veribivker of Veribivka. He is a tall Jew, broad-shouldered, a
giant. The townspeople are envious of his strength, and make fun of him.
"Peace be unto you. How is a Jew in health?" Nachman knows he is being
made fun of. He bends his shoulders so as to look more Jewish. But, it
is useless. He is too big.
Nachman has lived in the village a long time. "Our 'Lachman,'" the
peasants call him. They look upon him as a good man, with brains. They
like to have a chat with him. They follow his advice. "What are we to do
about bread?" "Lachman" has an almanack, and he knows whether bread will
be cheap or dear this year. He goes to the town, and so knows what is
doing in the world.
It would be hard to imagine Veribivka without Nachman. Not only was his
father, Feitel, born in Veribivka, but his grandfather, Arya. He was a
clever Jew, and a wit. He used to say that the village was called
Veribivka because Arya Veribivker lived in it, because, before Veribivka
was Veribivka, he, Arya Veribivker was already Arya Veribivker. That's
what his grandfather used to say. The Jews of those times!
And do you think Arya Veribivker said this for no reason? Arya was not
an ordinary man who made jokes without reason. He meant that the
catastrophes of his day were Jewish tragedies. At that time they already
talked of driving the Jews out of villages. And not only talked but
drove them out. All the Jews were driven out, excepting Arya Veribivker.
It may be that even the governor of the district could do nothing,
because Arya Veribivker proved that according to the law, he could not
be driven out. The Jews of those times!
* * *
Certainly, if one has inherited such a privilege, and is independent,
one can laugh at the whole world. What did our Nachman Veribivker care
about uprisings, the limitations of the Pale, of Circulars? What did
Nachman care about the wicked Gentile Kuratchka and the papers that he
brought from the court? Kuratchka was a short peasant with short
fingers. He wore a smock and high boots, and a silver chain and a watch
like a gentleman. He was a clerk of the court. And he read all the
papers which abused and vilified the Jews.
Personally, Kuratchka was not a bad sort. He was a neighbour of Nachman
and pretended to be a friend. When Kuratchka had the toothache, Nachman
gave him a lotion. When Kuratchka's wife was brought to bed of a child,
Nachman's wife nursed her. But for some time, the devil knows why,
Kuratchka had been reading the anti-Semitic papers, and he was an
altered man. "Esau began to speak in him." He was always bringing home
news of new governors, new circulars from the minister, and new edicts
against Jews. Each time, Nachman's heart was torn. But, he did not let
the Gentile know of it. He listened to him with a smile, and held out
the palm of his hand, as if to say, "When hair grows here."
Let governors change. Let ministers write circulars. What concern is it
of Nachman Veribivker of Veribivka?
Nachman lived comfortably. That is, not as comfortably as his
grandfather Arya had lived. Those were different times. One might almost
say that the whole of Veribivka belonged to Arya. He had the inn, the
store, a mill, a granary. He made money with spoons and plates, as they
say. But, that was long ago. Today, all these things are gone. No more
inn; no more store; no more granary. The question is why, in that case,
does Nachman live in the village? Where then should he live? In the
earth? Just let him sell his house, and he will be Nachman Veribivker no
more. He will be a dependent, a stranger. As it is, he has at least a
corner of his own, a house to live in, and a garden. His wife and
daughters cultivate the garden. And if the Lord helps them, they have
greens for the summer, and potatoes for the whole winter, until long
after the Passover. But, one cannot live on potatoes alone. It is said
that one wants bread with potatoes. And when there's no bread, a Jew
takes his stick, and goes through the village in search of business. He
never comes home empty-handed. What the Lord destines, he buys--some old
iron, a bundle of rags, an old sack, or else a hide. The hide is
stretched and dried, and is taken to the town, to Abraham-Elijah the
tanner. And on all these one either earns or loses money.
Abraham-Elijah the tanner, a man with a bluish nose and fingers as black
as ink, laughs at Nachman, because he is so coarsened through living
with Gentiles that he even speaks like them.
* * *
Yes, coarsened. Nachman feels it himself. He grows coarser each year.
Oh, if his grandfather Reb Arya--peace be unto him!--could see his
grandson. He had been a practical man, but had also been a scholar. He
knew whole passages of the Psalms and the prayers off by heart. The Jews
of those times! And what does he, Nachman, know? He can only just say
his prayers. It's well he knows that much. His children will know even
less. When he looks at his children, how they grow to the ceiling, broad
and tall like himself, and can neither read nor write, his heart grows
heavy. More than all, his heart aches for his youngest child, who is
called Feitel, after his father. He was a clever child, this Feitel. He
was smaller in build, more refined, more Jewish than the others. And he
had brains. He was shown the Hebrew alphabet once, in a prayer-book, and
he never again confused one letter with the other. Such a fine child to
grow up in a village amongst calves and pigs! He plays with Kuratchka's
son, Fedoka. He rides on the one stick with him. They both chase the one
cat. They both dig the same hole. They do together everything children
can do. Nachman is sorry to see his child playing with the Gentile
child. It withers him, as if he were a tree that had been stricken by
lightning.
* * *
Fedoka is a smart little boy. He has a pleasant face and a dimpled chin,
and flaxen hair. He loves Feitel, and Feitel does not dislike him. All
the winter each child slept on his father's stove. They went to the
window and longed for one another. They seldom met. But now the long
angry winter is over. The black earth throws off her cold white mantle.
The sun shines; and the wind blows. A little blade of grass peeps out.
At the foot of the hill the little river murmurs. The calf inhales the
soft air through distended nostrils. The cock closes one eye, and is
lost in meditation. Everything around and about has come to life again.
Everything rejoices. It is the Passover eve. Neither Feitel nor Fedoka
can be kept indoors. They rush out into God's world which has opened up
for them both. They take each other's hands, and fly down the hill that
smiles at them--"Come here, children!" They leap towards the sun that
greets them and calls them: "Come, children!" When they are tired of
running, they sit down on God's earth that knows no Jew and no Gentile,
but whispers invitingly: "Children, come to me, to me."
* * *
They have much to tell each other, not having met throughout the whole
winter. Feitel boasts that he knows the whole Hebrew alphabet. Fedoka
boasts that he has a whip. Feitel boasts that it is the eve of Passover.
They have "_matzos_" for the whole festival and wine. "Do you remember,
Fedoka, I gave you a '_matzo_' last year?" "'_Matzo_,'" repeats Fedoka.
A smile overspreads his pleasant face. It seems he remembers the taste
of the "_matzo_." "Would you like to have some '_matzo_' now, fresh
'_matzo_'?" Is it necessary to ask such a question? "Then come with me,"
says Feitel, pointing up the hill which smiled to them invitingly. They
climbed the hill. They gazed at the warm sun through their fingers. They
threw themselves on the damp earth which smelled so fresh. Feitel drew
out from under his blouse a whole fresh, white "_matzo_," covered with
holes on both sides. Fedoka licked his fingers in advance. Feitel broke
the "_matzo_" in halves, and gave one half to his friend. "What do you
say to the '_matzo_,' Fedoka?" What could Fedoka say when his mouth was
stuffed with "_matzo_" that crackled between his teeth, and melted under
his tongue like snow? One minute, and there was no more "_matzo_." "All
gone?" Fedoka threw his grey eyes at Feitel's blouse as a cat looks at
butter. "Want more?" asked Feitel, looking at Fedoka through his sharp
black eyes. What a question! "Then wait a while," said Feitel. "Next
year you'll get more." They both laughed at the joke. And without a
word, as if they had already arranged it, they threw themselves on the
ground, and rolled down the hill like balls, quickly, quickly downwards.
* * *
At the bottom of the hill they stood up, and looked at the murmuring
river that ran away to the left. They turned to the right, going further
and further over the broad fields that were not yet green in all places,
but showed signs of being green soon--that did not yet smell of grass,
but would smell of grass soon. They walked and walked in silence
bewitched by the loveliness of the earth, under the bright, smiling sun.
They did not walk, but swam. They did not swim, but flew. They flew like
birds that sweep in the soft air of the lovely world which the Lord has
created for all living things. Hush! They are at the windmill which
belongs to the village elder. Once it belonged to Nachman Veribivker.
Now it belongs to the village elder whose name is Opanas--a cunning
Gentile with one ear-ring, who owns a "_samovar_." Opanas is a rich
Epicurean. Along with the mill he has a store--the same store which once
belonged to Nachman Veribivker. He took both the mill and the store from
the Jew by cunning.
The mill went round in its season, but this day it was still. There was
no wind. A curious Passover eve without winds. That the mill was not
working was so much the better for Feitel and Fedoka. They could see the
mill itself. And there was much to see in the mill. But to them the mill
was not so interesting as the sails, and the wheel which turns them
whichever way the wind blows. They sat down near the mill, and talked.
It was one of those conversations which have no beginning and no end.
Feitel told stories of the town to which his father had once taken him.
He was at the fair. He saw shops. Not a single shop as in Veribivka, but
a lot of shops. And in the evening his father took him to the synagogue.
His father had "_Yahrzeit_" after his father. "That means after my
grandfather," explained Feitel. "Do you understand, or do you not?"
Fedoka might have understood, but he was not listening. He interrupted
with a story that had nothing to do with what Feitel was talking about.
He told Feitel that last year he saw a bird's nest in a high tree. He
tried to reach it, but could not. He tried to knock it down with a
stick, but could not. He threw stones at the nest, until he brought down
two tiny, bleeding fledglings.
"You killed them?" asked Feitel, fearfully, and made a wry face.
"Little ones," replied Fedoka.
"But, they were dead?"
"Without feathers, yellow beaks, little fat bellies."
"But killed, but killed!"
* * *
It was rather late when Feitel and Fedoka saw by the sun in the heavens
that it was time to go home. Feitel had forgotten that it was the
Passover eve. He remembered then that his mother had to wash him, and
dress him in his new trousers. He jumped up and flew home, Fedoka after
him. They both flew home, gladly and joyfully. And in order that one
should not be home before the other, they held hands, flying like arrows
from bows. When they got to the village, this was the scene which
confronted them:--
Nachman Veribivker's house was surrounded by peasants, men and women,
boys and girls. The clerk, Kuratchka, and Opanas the village elder and
his wife, and the magistrate and the policeman--all were there, talking
and shouting together. Nachman and his wife were in the middle of the
crowd, arguing and waving their hands. Nachman was bent low and was
wiping the perspiration from his face with both hands. By his side stood
his older children, gloomy and downcast. Suddenly, the whole picture
changed. Some one pointed to the two children. The whole crowd,
including the village elder and the magistrate, the policeman and the
clerk, stood still, like petrified. Only Nachman looked at the people,
straightened out his back, and laughed. His wife threw out her hands and
began to weep.
The village elder and the clerk and the magistrate and their wives
pounced on the children.
"Where were you, you so-and-so?"
"Where were we? We were down by the mill."
* * *
The two friends, Feitel as well as Fedoka, got punished without knowing
why.
Feitel's father flogged him with his cap. "A boy should know." What
should a boy know? Out of pity his mother took him from his father's
hands. She gave him a few smacks on her own account, and at once washed
him and dressed him in his new trousers--the only new garment he had for
the Passover. She sighed. Why? Afterwards, he heard his father saying to
his mother: "May the Lord help us to get over this Festival in peace.
The Passover ought to have gone before it came." Feitel could not
understand why the Passover should have gone before it came. He worried
himself about this. He did not understand why his father had flogged
him, and his mother smacked him. He did not understand what sort of a
Passover eve it was this day in the world.
* * *
If Feitel's Jewish brains could not solve the problems, certainly
Fedoka's peasant brains could not. First of all his mother took hold of
him by the flaxen hair, and pulled it. Then she gave him a few good
smacks in the face. These he accepted like a philosopher. He was used to
them. And he heard his mother talking with the peasants. They told
curious tales of a child that the Jews of the town had enticed on the
Passover eve, hidden in a cellar a day and a night, and were about to
make away with, when his cries were heard by passers-by. They rescued
him. He had marks on his body--four marks, placed like a cross.
A cunning peasant-woman with a red face told this tale. And the other
women shook their shawl-covered heads, and crossed themselves. Fedoka
could not understand why the women looked at him when they were talking.
And what had the tale to do with him and Feitel? Why had his mother
pulled his flaxen hair and boxed his ears? He did not care about these.
He was used to them. He only wanted to know why he had had such a good
share that day.
* * *
"Well?" Feitel heard his father remark to his mother immediately after
the Festival. His face was shining as if the greatest good fortune had
befallen him. "Well? You fretted yourself to death. You were afraid. A
woman remains a woman. Our Passover and their Easter have gone, and
nothing."
"Thank God," replied his mother. And Feitel could not understand what
his mother had feared. And why were they glad that the Passover was
gone? Would it not have been better if the Passover had been longer and
longer?
Feitel met Fedoka outside the door. He could not contain himself, but
told him everything--how they had prayed, and how they had eaten. Oh,
how they had eaten! He told him how nice all the Passover dishes were,
and how sweet the wine. Fedoka listened attentively, and cast his eyes
on Feitel's blouse. He was still thinking of "_matzo_." Suddenly there
was a scream, and a cry in a high-pitched soprano:
"Fedoka, Fedoka!"
It was his mother calling him in for supper. But Fedoka did not hurry.
He thought she would not pull his hair now. First of all, he had not
been at the mill. Secondly, it was after the Passover. After the
Passover there was no need to be afraid of the Jews. He stretched
himself on the grass, on his stomach, propping up his white head with
his hands. Opposite him lay Feitel, his black head propped up by his
hands. The sky is blue. The sun is warm. The little wind fans one and
plays with one's hair. The little calf stands close by. The cock is also
near, with his wives. The two heads, the black and the white, are close
together. The children talk and talk and talk, and cannot finish
talking.
* * *
Nachman Veribivker is not at home. Early in the morning he took his
stick, and let himself go over the village, in search of business. He
stopped at every farm, bade the Gentiles good-morning, calling each one
by name, and talked with them on every subject in the world. But he
avoided all reference to the Passover incident, and never even hinted at
his fears of the Passover. Before going away, he said: "Perhaps, friend,
you have something you would like to sell?" "Nothing, 'Lachman,'
nothing." "Old iron, rags, an old sack, or a hide?" "Do not be offended,
'Lachman,' there is nothing. Bad times!" "Bad times? You drank
everything, maybe. Such a festival!" "Who drank? What drank? Bad
times."
The Gentile sighed. Nachman also sighed. They talked of different
things. Nachman would not have the other know that he came only on
business. He left that Gentile, and went to another, to a third, until
he came upon something. He would not return home empty-handed.
Nachman Veribivker, loaded and perspiring, tramped home, thinking only
of one problem--how much he was going to gain or lose that day. He has
forgotten the Passover eve incident. He has forgotten the fears of the
Passover. The clerk, Kuratchka, and his governors and circulars have
gone clean out of the Jew's head.
Let winds blow. Let storms rage. Let the world turn upside down. The old
oak which has been standing since the creation of the world, and whose
roots reach to God-knows-where--what does he care for winds? What are
storms to him?