On the eve of "_Shevuous_," I induced my mother--peace be unto her!--to
let me go off outside the town, by myself, to gather greens for the
Festival.
And my mother let me go off alone to gather the greens for the Festival.
May she have a bright Paradise for that!
A real pleasure is a pleasure that one enjoys by one's self, without a
companion, and without a single argument. I was alone, free as a bird,
in the big cultivated field. Above me was the whole of the blue cap
called "the sky." For me alone shone the beautiful queen of the day, the
sun. For my sake there came together, here in the big field, all the
singers and warblers and dancers. For my sake there was spread before me
the row of tall sunflowers, and the delicate growths were scattered all
over the field by a benevolent nature. No one bothered me. No one
prevented me from doing what I liked. No one saw me but God. And I could
do what I liked. If I liked I might sing. If I liked I might shout and
scream at the top of my voice. If I liked I might make a horn with my
hands, and blow out a melody. If I liked I might roll on the green grass
just as I was, curling myself up like a hedgehog. Who was there to give
me orders? And whom would I pay heed to? I was free--I was free.
The day was so warm, the sun so beautiful, the sky so clear, the field
so green, the grass so fresh, my heart so gay, and my soul so joyful
that I forgot completely I was a stranger in the field and had merely
come out to cut green boughs for "_Shevuous_." I imagined I was a
prince, and the whole field that my eyes rested on, and everything in
the field, and even the blue sky above it--all were mine. I owned
everything, and could do what I liked with it--I, and no one else. And
like an overlord who had complete control of everything, I longed to
show my power, my strength, my authority--all that I could and would do.
* * *
First of all I was displeased with the tall giants with the yellow
hats--the sunflowers. Suddenly they appeared to me as my enemies. And
all the other plants with and without stalks, the beans and beanstalks,
were enemies too. They were the Philistines that had settled on my
ground. Who had sent for them? And those thick green plants lying on the
ground, with huge green heads--the cabbages, what are they doing here?
They will only get drunk and bring a misfortune upon me. Let them go
into the earth. I do not want them. Angry thoughts and fierce instincts
awoke within me. A curious feeling of vengefulness took possession of
me. I began to avenge myself of my enemies. And what a vengeance it was!
I had with me all the tools I would need for cutting the green boughs
for the Festival--pocket-knife with two blades, and a sword--a wooden
sword, but a sharp one.
This sword had remained with me after "_L'ag Beomer_." And although I
had carried it with me when I had gone with my comrades to do battle
outside the town, yet I could swear to you, though you may believe me
without an oath, that the sword had not spilled one drop of blood. It
was one of those weapons that are carried about in times of peace. There
was not a sign of war. It was quiet and peaceful around and about. I
carried the sword because I wanted to. For the sake of peace, one must
have in readiness swords and guns and rifles and cannon, horses and
soldiers. May they never be needed for ill, as my mother used to say
when she was making preserves.
* * *
It is the same all the world over. In a war, one aims first at the
leaders, the officers. It is better still if one can hit the general.
After that the soldiers fall like chaff, in any event. Therefore you
will not be surprised to hear that, first of all, I fell upon Goliath
the Philistine. I gave him a good blow on the head with my sword, and a
few good blows from the back. And the wicked one was stretched at my
feet, full length. After that I knocked over a good many more wicked
ones. I pulled the stalks out of the ground, and threw them to the
devil. The short, fat green enemies I attacked in a different manner.
Wherever I could, I took the green heads off. The others I trampled
down with my feet. I made a heap of ashes of them.
During a battle, when the blood is hot, and one is carried away by
excitement, one cuts down everything that is at hand, right and left.
When one is spilling blood, one loses one's self, one does not know
where one is in the world. At such a time, one does not honour old age.
One does not care about weak women. One has no pity for little children.
Blood is simply poured out like water.... When I was cutting down the
enemy, I felt a hatred and a malice I had never experienced before,
immediately after I had delivered the first blow. The more I killed the
more excited I became. I urged myself to go on. I was so beside myself,
so enflamed, so ecstatic that I smashed up, and destroyed everything
before me. I cut about me on all sides. Most of all the "little ones"
suffered at my hands--the young peas in the fat little pods, the tiny
cucumbers that were just showing above ground. These excited me by their
silence and their coldness. And I gave them such a share that they would
never forget me. I knocked off heads, tore open bellies, shattered to
atoms, beat, murdered, killed. May I know of evil as little as I know
how I came to be so wicked. Innocent potatoes, poor things, that lay
deep in the earth, I dug out, just to show them that there was no hiding
from me. Little onions and green garlic I tore up by the roots. Radishes
flew about me like hail. And may the Lord punish me if I even tasted a
single bite of anything. I remembered the law in the Bible forbidding
it. And Jews do not plunder. Every minute, when an evil spirit came and
tempted me to taste a little onion or a young garlic, the words of the
Bible came into my mind.... But I did not cease from beating, breaking,
wounding, and killing and cutting to pieces, old and young, poor and
rich, big and little, without the least mercy....
On the contrary, I imagined I heard their wails and groans and cries for
mercy, and I was not moved. It was remarkable that I who could not bear
to see a fowl slaughtered, or a cat beaten, or a dog insulted, or a
horse whipped--I should be such a tyrant, such a murderer....
"Vengeance," I shouted without ceasing, "vengeance. I will have my
revenge of you for all the Jewish blood that was spilled. I will repay
you for Jerusalem, for the Jews of Spain and Portugal, and for the Jews
of Morocco. Also for the Jews who fell in the past, and those who are
falling today. And for the Scrolls of the Law that were torn, and for
the ... Oh! oh! oh! Help! Help! Who has me by the ear?"
Two good thumps and two good smacks in the face at the one time sobered
me on the instant. I saw before me a man who, I could have sworn, was
Okhrim, the gardener.
* * *
Okhrim the gardener had for years cultivated fields outside the town. He
rented a piece of ground, made a garden of it, and planted in it melons
and pumpkins, and onions and garlic and radishes and other vegetables.
He made a good living in this way. How did I know Okhrim? He used to
deal with us. That is to say, he used to borrow money off my mother
every Passover eve, and about "_Succoth_" time, he used to begin to pay
it back by degrees. These payments used to be entered on the inside
cover of my mother's prayer-book. There was a separate page for Okhrim,
and a separate account. It was headed in big writing, "Okhrim's
account." Under these words came the entries: "A '_rouble_' from Okhrim.
Another 'rouble' from Okhrim. Two 'roubles' from Okhrim. Half a
'_rouble_' from Okhrim. A sack of potatoes from Okhrim," and so on....
And though my mother was not rich--a widow with children, who lived by
money-lending--she took no interest from Okhrim. He used to repay us in
garden-produce, sometimes more, sometimes less. We never quarrelled with
him.
If the harvest was good, he filled our cellar with potatoes and
cucumbers to last us all the winter. And if the harvest was bad, he used
to come and plead with my mother:
"Do not be offended, Mrs. Abraham, the harvest is bad."
My mother forgave him, and told him not to be greedy next year.
"You may trust me, Mrs. Abraham, you may trust me," Okhrim replied. And
he kept his word. He brought us the first pickings of onions and garlic.
We had new potatoes and green cucumbers before the rich folks. I heard
our neighbours say, more than once, that the widow was not so badly off
as she said. "See, they bring her the best of everything." Of course, I
at once told my mother what I had heard, and she poured out a few curses
on our neighbours.
"Salt in their eyes, and stones in their hearts! Whoever begrudges me
what I have, let him have nothing. I wish them to be in my position next
year."
Naturally, I at once told my neighbours what my mother had wished them;
and, of course, for these words they were enraged against her. They
called her by a name I was ashamed to hear.... Naturally I was angry,
and at once told my mother of it. My mother gave me two smacks and told
me to give up carrying "'_Purim_' presents" from one to the other. The
smacks pained, and the words "'_Purim_' presents" gnawed at my brain. I
could not understand why she said "'_Purim_' presents."
I used to rejoice when I saw Okhrim from the distance, in his high boots
and his thick, white, warm, woollen pellisse which he wore winter and
summer. When I saw him, I knew he was bringing us a sackful of garden
produce. And I flew into the kitchen to tell my mother the news that
Okhrim was coming.
* * *
I must confess that there was a sort of secret love between Okhrim and
myself--a sort of sympathy that could not be expressed in words. We
rarely spoke to one another. Firstly, because I did not understand his
language, that is to say, I understood his but he did not understand
mine. Secondly, I was shy. How could I talk to such a big Okhrim? I had
to ask my mother to be our interpreter.
"Mother, ask him why he does not bring me some grapes."
"Where is he going to get them? There are no grapes growing in a
vegetable garden."
"Why are there no grapes in a vegetable garden?"
"Because vine trees do not grow with vegetables."
"Why do vine trees not grow with vegetables?"
"Why--why--why? You are a fool," cried my mother, and gave me a smack in
the face.
"Mrs. Abraham, do not beat the child," said Okhrim, defending me.
That is the sort of Gentile Okhrim was. And it was in his hands I found
myself that day when I waged war against the vegetables.
This is what I believe took place: When Okhrim came up and saw his
garden in ruins, he could not at once understand what had happened. When
he saw me swinging my sword about me on all sides, he ought to have
realized I was a terrible being, an evil spirit, a demon, and crossed
himself several times. But when he saw that it was a Jewish boy who was
fighting so vigorously, and with a wooden sword, he took hold of me by
the ear with so much force that I collapsed, fell to the ground, and
screamed in a voice unlike my own:
"Oh! Oh! Oh! Who is pulling me by the ear?"
It was only after Okhrim had given me a few good thumps and several
resounding smacks that we encountered each other's eyes and recognized
one another. We were both so astonished that we were speechless.
"Mrs. Abraham's boy!" cried Okhrim, and he crossed himself. He began to
realize the ruin I had brought on his garden. He scrutinized each bed
and examined each little stick. He was so overcome that the tears filled
his eyes. He stood facing me, his hands folded, and he asked me only one
solitary question:
"Why have you done this to me?"
It was only then that I realized the mischief I had done, and whom I had
done it to. I was so amazed at myself that I could only repeat:
"Why? Why?"
"Come," said Okhrim, and took me by the hand. I was bowed to the earth
with fear. I imagined he was going to make an end of me. But Okhrim did
not touch me. He only held me so tightly by the hand that my eyes began
to bulge from my head. He brought me home to my mother, told her
everything, and left me entirely in her hands.
* * *
Need I tell you what I got from my mother? Need I describe for you her
anger, and her fright, and how she wrung her hands when Okhrim told her
in detail all that had taken place in his garden, and of all the damage
I had done to his vegetables? Okhrim took his stick and showed my mother
how I had destroyed everything on all sides, how I had smashed and
broken, and trampled down everything with my feet, pulled the little
potatoes out of the ground, and torn the tops off the little onions
and the garlic that were just showing above the earth.
"And why? And wherefore? Why, Mrs. Abraham--why?"
Okhrim could say no more. The sobs stuck in his throat and choked him.
I must tell you the real truth, children. I would rather Okhrim with the
strong arms had beaten me, than have got what I did from my mother,
before "_Shevuous_," and what the teacher gave me after "_Shevuous_."
... And the shame of it all. I was reminded of it all the year round by
the boys at "_Cheder_." They gave me a nickname--"The Gardener." I was
Yossel "the gardener."
This nickname stuck to me almost until the day I was married.