* * *
The few words his mother had said to his father about his biting off the
top of the citron burned themselves into Leibel's heart, and ate into
his bones like a deadly poison.
The top of the citron buried itself in Leibel's brain. It did not leave
his thoughts for a moment. It entered his dreams at night, worried him,
and almost dragged him by the hand. "You do not recognize me, foolish
boy? It is I--the top of the citron." Leibel turned round on the other
side, groaned, and went to sleep. It worried him again. "Get up, fool.
Go and open the cupboard, take out the citron, and bite me off. You will
enjoy yourself."
Leibel got up in the morning, washed his hands, and began to say his
prayers. He took his breakfast, and was going off to "_Cheder_." Passing
by, he glanced in the direction of the glass cupboard. Through the glass
door, he saw the box containing the citron. And he imagined the box was
winking at him. "Over here, over here, little boy." Leibel marched
straight out of the house.
One morning, when Leibel got up, he found himself alone in the house.
His father had gone off to business, his mother had gone to the market.
The servant was busy in the kitchen. "Every one is gone. There isn't a
soul in the house," thought Leibel. Passing by, he again looked inside
the glass cupboard. He saw the sugar box that held the citron. It seemed
to be beckoning to him. "Over here, over here, little boy." Leibel
opened the glass door softly and carefully, and took out the box--the
beautiful, round, carved, decorated wooden box, and raised the lid.
Before he had time to lift out the citron, the fragrance of it filled
his nostrils--the pungent, heavenly odour. Before he had time to turn
around, the citron was in his hand, and the top of it in his eyes.
"Do you want to enjoy yourself? Do you want to know the taste of
Paradise? Take and bite me off. Do not be afraid, little fool. No one
will know of it. Not a son of Adam will see you. No bird will tell on
you."
* * *
You want to know what happened? You want to know whether I bit the top
off the citron, or held myself back from doing it? I should like to know
what you would have done in my place--if you had been told ten times not
to dare to bite the top off the citron? Would you not have wanted to
know what it tasted like? Would you not also have thought of the
plan--to bite it off, and stick it on again with spittle? You may
believe me or not--that is your affair--but I do not know myself how it
happened. Before the citron was rightly in my hands, the top of it was
between my teeth.
* * *
The day before the Festival, father came home a little earlier from his
work, to untie the palm-branch. He had put it away very carefully in a
corner, warning Leibel not to attempt to go near it. But it was useless
warning him. Leibel had his own troubles. The top of the citron haunted
him. Why had he wanted to bite it off? What good had it done him to
taste it when it was bitter as gall? It was for nothing he had spoiled
the citron, and rendered it unfit for use. That the citron could not now
be used, Leibel knew very well. Then what had he done this for? Why had
he spoiled this beautiful creation, bitten off its head, and taken its
life? Why? Why? He dreamt of the citron that night. It haunted him, and
asked him: "Why have you done this thing to me? Why did you bite off my
head? I am now useless--useless." Leibel turned over on the other side,
groaned, and fell asleep again. But he was again questioned by the
citron. "Murderer, what have you against me? What had my head done to
you?"
* * *
The first day of the Feast of Tabernacles arrived. After a frosty night,
the sun rose and covered the earth with a delayed warmth, like that of a
step-mother. That morning Moshe-Yankel got up earlier than usual to
learn off by heart the Festival prayers, reciting them in the beautiful
Festival melody. That day also Basse-Beila was very busy cooking the
fish and the other Festival dishes. That day also Zalmen the carpenter
came to our Tabernacle to make a blessing over the citron and palm
before any one else, so that he might be able to drink tea with milk and
enjoy the Festival.
"Zalmen wants the palm and the citron," said my mother to my father.
"Open the cupboard, and take out the box, but carefully," said my
father.
He himself stood on a chair and took down from the top shelf the palm,
and brought it to the Tabernacle to the carpenter.
"Here, make the blessing," he said. "But be careful, in Heaven's name be
careful!"
Our neighbour Zalmen was a giant of a man--may no evil eye harm him! He
had two hands each finger of which might knock down three such Leibels
as I. His hands were always sticky, and his nails red from glue. And
when he drew one of these nails across a piece of wood, there was a mark
that might have been made with a sharp piece of iron.
In honour of the Festival, Zalmen had put on a clean shirt and a new
coat. He had scrubbed his hands in the bath, with soap and sand, but had
not succeeded in making them clean. They were still sticky and the nails
still red with glue.
Into these hands fell the dainty citron. It was not for nothing
Moshe-Yankel was excited when Zalmen gave the citron a good squeeze and
the palm a good shake.
"Be careful, be careful," he cried. "Now turn the citron head downwards,
and make the blessing. Carefully, carefully. For Heaven's sake, be
careful!"
Suddenly Moshe-Yankel threw himself forward, and cried out, "Oh!" The
cry brought his wife, Basse-Beila, running into the Tabernacle.
"What is it, Moshe-Yankel? God be with you!"
"Coarse blackguard! Man of the earth!" he shouted at the carpenter, and
was ready to kill him.
"How could you be such a coarse blackguard? Such a man of the earth? Is
a citron an ax? Or is it a saw? Or a bore? A citron is neither an ax nor
a saw nor a bore. You have cut my throat without a knife. You have
spoiled my citron. Here is the top of it--here, see! Coarse blackguard!
Man of the earth!"
We were all paralysed on the instant. Zalmen was like a dead man. He
could not understand how this misfortune had happened to him. How had
the top come off the citron? Surely he had held it very lightly, only
just with the tips of his fingers? It was a misfortune--a terrible
misfortune.
Basse-Beila was pale as death. She wrung her hands and moaned.
"When a man is unfortunate, he may as well bury himself alive and fresh
and well, right in the earth."
And Leibel? Leibel did not know whether he should dance with joy because
the Lord had performed a miracle for him, released him from all the
trouble he had got himself into, or whether he should cry for his
father's agony and his mother's tears, or whether he should kiss
Zalmen's thick hands with the sticky fingers and the red nails, because
he was his redeemer, his good angel.... Leibel looked at his father's
face and his mother's tears, the carpenter's hands, and at the citron
that lay on the table, yellow as wax, without a head, without a spark of
life, a dead thing, a corpse.
"A dead citron," said my father, in a broken voice.
"A dead citron," repeated my mother, the tears gushing from her eyes.
"A dead citron," echoed the carpenter, looking at his hands. He seemed
to be saying to himself: "There's a pair of hands for you! May they
wither!"
"A dead citron," said Leibel, in a joyful voice. But he caught himself
up, fearing his tones might proclaim that he, Leibel, was the murderer,
the slaughterer of the citron.