"Amen, amen," repeated Leibel in his heart. And he pictured to himself
his father coming into the synagogue, like a respectable householder,
with his own citron and his own palm-branch. And though Moshe-Yankel is
only a clerk, still when the men walk around the Ark with their palms
and their citrons, he will follow them with his palm and citron. And
Leibel's heart was full of joy. When he came to "_Cheder_," he at once
told every one that this year his father would have his own palm and
citron. But no one believed him.
"What do you say to his father?" asked the young scamps of one another.
"Such a man--such a beggar amongst beggars desires to have a citron of
his own. He must imagine it is a lemon, or a '_groschen_' apple."
That was what the young scamps said. And they gave Leibel a few good
smacks and thumps, and punches and digs and pushes. And Leibel began to
believe that his father was a beggar amongst beggars. And a beggar must
have no desires. But how great was his surprise when he came home and
found "_Reb_" Henzel sitting at the table, in his Napoleonic cap, facing
his father. In front of them stood a box full of citrons, the beautiful
perfume of which reached the furthest corners of the house.
* * *
The cap which "_Reb_" Henzel wore was the sort of cap worn in the time
of Napoleon the First. Over there in France, these caps were long out of
fashion. But in our village there was still one to be found--only one,
and it belonged to "_Reb_" Henzel. The cap was long and narrow. It had a
slit and a button in front, and at the back two tassels. I always wanted
these tassels. If the cap had fallen into my hands for two minutes--only
two, the tassels would have been mine.
"_Reb_" Henzel had spread out his whole stock-in-trade. He took up a
citron with his two fingers, and gave it to father to examine.
"Take this citron, '_Reb_' Moshe-Yankel. You will enjoy it."
"A good one?" asked my father, examining the citron on all sides, as one
might examine a diamond. His hands trembled with joy.
"And what a good one," replied "_Reb_" Henzel, and the tassels of his
cap shook with his laughter.
Moshe-Yankel played with the citron, smelled it, and could not take his
eyes off it. He called over his wife to him, and showed her, with a
happy smile, the citron, as if he were showing her a precious jewel, a
priceless gem, a rare antique, or an only child--a dear one.
Basse-Beila drew near, and put out her hand slowly to take hold of the
citron. But she did not get it.
"Be careful with your hands. A sniff if you like."
Basse-Beila was satisfied with a sniff of the citron. I was not even
allowed to sniff it. I was not allowed to go too near it, or even to
look at it.
"He is here, too," said my mother. "Only let him go near it, and he will
at once bite the top off the citron."
"The Lord forbid!" cried my father.
"The Lord preserve us!" echoed "_Reb_" Henzel. And the tassels shook
again. He gave father some cotton-wool into which he might nest the
citron. The beautiful perfume spread into every corner of the house. The
citron was wrapped up as carefully as if it had been a diamond, or a
precious gem. And it was placed in a beautiful round, carved, painted
and decorated wooden sugar box. The sugar was taken out, and the citron
was put in instead, like a beloved guest.
"Welcome art thou, '_Reb_' citron! Into the box--into the box!"
The box was carefully closed, and placed in the glass cupboard. The door
was closed over on it, and good-bye!
"I am afraid the heathen"--that was meant for me--"will open the door,
take out the citron, and bite its top off," said my mother. She took me
by the hand, and drew me away from the cupboard.
Like a cat that has smelt butter, and jumps down from a height for it,
straightens her back, goes round and round, rubbing herself against
everything, looks into everybody's eyes, and licks herself--in like
manner did Leibel, poor thing, go round and round the cupboard. He gazed
in through the glass door, smiled at the box containing the citron,
until his mother saw him, and said to his father that the young scamp
wanted to get hold of the citron to bite off its top.
"To '_Cheder_,' you blackguard! May you never be thought of, you scamp!"