The Pocket-Knife

Listen, children, and I will tell you a story about a little knife--not

an invented story, but a true one, that happened to myself.

I never wished for anything in the world so much as for a pocket-knife.

It should be my own, and should lie in my pocket, and I should be able

to take it out whenever I wished, to cut whatever I liked. Let my

friends know. I had just begun to go to school, under Yossel Dardaki,

and I already had a knife, that is, what was almost a knife. I made it

myself. I tore a goose-quill out of a feather brush, cut off one end,

and flattened out the other. I pretended it was a knife and would cut.

"What sort of a feather is that? What the devil does it mean? Why do you

carry a feather about with you?" asked my father--a sickly Jew, with a

yellow, wrinkled face. He had a fit of coughing. "Here are feathers for

you--playtoys! Tkeh-heh-heh-heh!"

"What do you care if the child plays?" asked my mother of him. She was a

short-built woman and wore a silk scarf on her head. "Let my enemies eat

out their hearts!"

Later, when I was learning the Bible and the commentaries, I very nearly

had a real knife, also of my own making. I found a bit of steel

belonging to my mother's crinoline, and I set it very cleverly into a

piece of wood. I sharpened the steel beautifully on a stone, and

naturally cut all my fingers to pieces.

"See, just see, how he has bled himself, that son of yours," said my

father. He took hold of my hands in such a way that the very bones

cracked. "He's a fine fellow! Heh-heh-heh!"

"Oh, may the thunder strike me!" cried my mother. She took the little

knife from me, and threw it into the fire. She took no notice of my

crying. "Now it will come to an end. Woe is me!"

I soon got another knife, but in reality, a little knife. It had a

thick, round, wooden handle, like a barrel, and a curved blade which

opened as well as closed. You want to know how I came by it? I saved up

the money from what I got for my breakfasts, and I bought the knife for

seven "_groschens_" from Solomon, and I owed him three more

"_groschens_."

Oh, how I loved it, how I loved it. I came home from school black and

blue, hungry and sleepy, and with my ears well boxed. (You see, I had

just started learning the "_Gemarra_" with Mottel, the "Angel of Death."

"If an ox gore a cow" I learnt. And if an ox gores a cow, then I must

get beaten.) And the first thing I did was to take out my pocket-knife

from under the black cupboard. (It lay there the whole day, because I

dared not take it to school with me; and at home no one must know that

I have a knife.) I stroked it, I cut a piece of paper with it, split a

straw in halves, and then cut up my bread into little cubes which I

stuck on the tip of the blade, and afterwards put into my mouth.

Later, before going to bed, I cleaned the knife, and scrubbed it, and

polished it. I took the sharpening stone, which I found in the hayloft,

spit on it, and in silence began to work, sharpening the little knife,

sharpening, sharpening.

My father, his little round cap on his head, sat over a book. He coughed

and read, read and coughed. My mother was in the kitchen making bread. I

did not cease from sharpening my knife, and sharpening it.

Suddenly my father woke up, as from a deep sleep.

"Who is making that hissing noise? Who is working? What are you doing,

you young scamp?"

He stood beside me, and bent over my sharpening-stone. He caught hold of

my ear. A fit of coughing choked him.

"Ah! Ah! Ah! Little knives! Heh-heh-heh!" said my father, and he took

the knife and the sharpening-stone from me. "Such a scamp! Why the devil

can't he take a book into his hand? Tkeh-heh-heh!"

I began to cry. My father improved the situation by a few slaps. My

mother ran in from the kitchen, her sleeves turned up, and she began to

shout:

"Shah! Shah! What's the matter here? Why do you beat him? God be with

you! What have you against the child? Woe is me!"

"Little knives," said my father, ending up with a cough. "A tiny child.

Such a devil. Tkeh-heh-heh! Why the devil can't he take a book into his

hand? He's already a youth of eight years.... I will give you

pocket-knives--you good-for-nothing, you. In the middle of everything,

pocket-knives. Thek-heh-heh!"

But what had he against my little knife? How had it sinned in his eyes?

Why was he so angry?

I remember that my father was nearly always ailing--always pale and

hollow-cheeked, and always angry with the whole world. For the least

thing he flared up and would tear me to pieces. It was fortunate my

mother defended me. She took me out of his hands.

And that pocket-knife of mine was thrown away somewhere. For eight days

on end I looked and looked for it, but could not find it. I mourned

deeply for that curved knife--the good knife. How dark and embittered

was my soul at school when I remembered that I would come home with a

swollen face, with red, torn ears from the hands of Mottel, the "Angel

of Death," because an ox gored a cow, and I would have no one to turn to

for comfort. I was lonely without the curved knife--lonely as an orphan.

No one saw the tears I shed in silence, in my bed, at night, after I had

come back from "_Cheder_." In silence, I cried my eyes out. In the

morning I was again at "_Cheder_," and again I repeated: "If an ox gore

a cow," and again I felt the blows of Mottel, the "Angel of Death";

again my father was angry, coughed, and swore at me. I had not a free

moment. I did not see a smiling face. There was not a single little

smile for me anywhere, not a single one. I had nobody. I was alone--all

alone in the whole world.

* * *

A year went by, and perhaps a year and a half. I was beginning to forget

the curved knife. It seems I was destined to waste all the years of my

childhood because of pocket-knives. A new knife was created--to my

misfortune--a brand new knife, a beauty, a splendid one. As I live, it

was a fine knife. It had two blades, fine, steel ones, sharp as razors,

and a white bone handle, and brass ends, and copper rivets. I tell you,

it was a beauty, a real good pocket-knife.

How came to me such a fine knife, that was never meant for such as I?

That is a whole story--a sad, but interesting story. Listen to me

attentively.

What value in my eyes had the German Jew who lodged with us--the

contractor, Herr Hertz Hertzenhertz, when he spoke Yiddish, went about

without a cap, had no beard or earlocks, and had his coat-tails cut off?

I ask you how I could have helped laughing into his face, when that

Jewish-Gentile, or Gentilish-Jew talked to me in Yiddish, but in a

curious Yiddish with a lot of A's in it.

"Well, dear boy, which portion of the Law will be read this week?"

"Ha! ha! ha!" I burst out laughing and hid my face in my hands.

"Say, say, my dear child, what portion of the Law will be read this

week?"

"Ha! ha! ha! Balak," I burst out with a laugh, and ran away.

But that was only in the beginning, before I knew him. Afterwards, when

I knew Herr Hertz Hertzenhertz better (he lived at our house for over a

year) I loved him so well that I did not care if he said no prayers, and

ate his food without saying the blessings. Nevertheless, I did not

understand how he existed, and why the Lord allowed him to remain in the

world. Why was he not choked at table? And why did the hair not fall out

of his uncovered head? I had heard from my teacher, Mottel, the "Angel

of Death," from his own mouth, that this German Jew was only a spirit.

That is to say, a Jew was turned into a German; and later on he might

turn into a wolf, a cow, a horse, or maybe a duck. A duck?

"Ha! ha! ha! A fine story," thought I. But I was genuinely sorry for the

German. Nevertheless, I did not understand why my father, who was a very

orthodox Jew, should pay the German Jew so much respect, as also did the

other Jews who used to come into our house.

"Peace be unto you, Reb Hertzenhertz! Blessed art thou who comest, Reb

Hertz Hertzenhertz!"

I once ventured to ask my father why this was so, but he thrust me to

one side and said:

"Go away. It is not your business. Why do you get under our feet? Who

the devil wants you? Why the devil can't you take a book into your

hands? Heh-heh-heh-heh!"

Again a book? Lord of the world, I also want to see; I also want to hear

what people are saying.

I went into the parlour, hid myself in a corner, and heard everything

the men talked about. Herr Hertz Hertzenhertz laughed aloud, and smoked

thick black cigars that had a very strong smell. Suddenly my father came

over to me, and gave me a smack.

"Are you here again, you idler and good-for-nothing? What will become of

you, you dunce? What will become of you? Heh-heh-heh-heh!"

It was no use. My father drove me out. I took a book into my hands, but

I did not want to read it. What was I to do? I went about the house,

from one room to the other, until I came to the nicest room of all--the

room in which slept Herr Hertz Hertzenhertz. Ah, how beautiful and

bright it was! The lamps were lit, and the mirror shone. On the table

was a big, beautiful silver inkstand, and beautiful pens, also little

ornaments--men, and animals, and flowers, and bones and stones, and a

little knife! Ah, what a beautiful knife! What if I had such a knife?

What fine things I would make with it. How happy I should be. Well, I

must try it. Is it sharp? Ah, it cuts a hair. It slices up a hair. Oh,

oh, oh, what a knife!

One moment I held the knife in my hand. I looked about me on all sides,

and slipped it into my pocket. My hands trembled. My heart was beating

so loudly that I could hear it saying, "Tick, tick, tick!" I heard some

one coming. It was he--Herr Hertz Hertzenhertz. Ah, what was I to do?

The knife might remain in my pocket. I could put it back later on.

Meanwhile, I must get out of the room, run away, away, far.

I could eat no supper that night. My mother felt my head. My father

threw angry glances at me, and told me to go to bed. Sleep? Could I

close my eyes? I was like dead. What was I to do with the little knife?

How was I going to put it back again?

* * *

"Come over here, my little ornament," said my father to me next day.

"Did you see the little pocket-knife anywhere?"

Of course I was very much frightened. It seemed to me that he knew--that

everybody knew. I was almost, almost crying out: "The pocket-knife? Here

it is." But something came into my throat, and would not let me utter a

sound for a minute or so. In a shaking voice I replied:

"Where? What pocket-knife?"

"Where? What knife?" my father mocked at me. "What knife? The golden

knife. Our guest's knife, you good-for-nothing, you! You dunce, you!

Tkeh-heh-heh!"

"What do you want of the child?" put in my mother. "The child knows

nothing of anything, and he worries him about the knife, the knife."

"The knife--the knife! How can he not know about it?" cried my father

angrily. "All the morning he hears me shouting--The knife! The knife!

The knife! The house is turned upside down for the knife, and he asks

'Where? What knife?' Go away. Go and wash yourself, you

good-for-nothing, you. You dunce, dunce! Tkeh-heh-heh!"

I thank Thee, Lord of the Universe, that they did not search me. But

what was I to do next? The knife had to be hidden somewhere, in a safe

place. Where was I to hide it? Ah! In the attic. I took the knife

quickly from my pocket, and stuck it into my top-boot. I ate, and I did

not know what I was eating. I was choking.

"Why are you in such a hurry? What the devil ...?" asked my father.

"I am hurrying off to school," I answered, and grew red as fire.

"A scholar, all of a sudden. What do you say to such a saint?" he

muttered, and glared at me. I barely managed to finish my breakfast, and

say grace.

"Well, why are you not off to '_Cheder_,' my saint?" asked my father.

"Why do you hunt him so?" asked my mother. "Let the child sit a minute."

I was in the attic. Deep, deep in a hole lay the beautiful knife. It lay

there in silence.

"What are you doing in the attic?" called out my father. "You

good-for-nothing! You street-boy! Tkeh-heh-heh-heh!"

"I am looking for something," I answered. I nearly fell down with

fright.

"Something? What is the something? What sort of a thing is that

something?"

"A--a bo--ok. An--an old '_Ge--gemar--ra_.'"

"What? A '_Gemarra_'? In the attic? Ah, you scamp you! Come down at

once. Come down. You'll get it from me. You street-boy! You dog-beater!

You rascal! Tkeh-heh-heh-heh!"

I was not so much afraid of my father's anger as that the pocket-knife

might be found. Who could tell? Perhaps some one would go up to the

attic to hang out clothes to dry, or to paint the rafters? The knife

must be taken down from there, and hidden in a better place. I went

about in fear and trembling. Every glance at my father told me that he

knew, and that now, now he was going to talk to me of the guest's knife.

I had a place for it--a grand place. I would bury it in the ground, in a

hole near the wall. I would put some straw on the spot to mark it. The

moment I came from "_Cheder_" I ran out into the yard. I took the knife

carefully from my pocket, but had no time to look at it, when my father

called out:

"Where are you at all? Why don't you go and say your prayers? You

swine-herd you! You are a water-carrier! Tkeh-heh-heh!"

But whatever my father said to me, and as much as the teacher beat me,

it was all rubbish to me when I came home, and had the pleasure of

seeing my one and only dear friend--my little knife. The pleasure was,

alas! mixed with pain, and embittered by fear--by great fear.

* * *

It is the summer time. The sun is setting. The air grows somewhat

cooler. The grass emits a sweet odour. The frogs croak, and the thick

clouds fly by, without rain, across the moon. They wish to swallow her

up. The silvery white moon hides herself every minute, and shows herself

again. It seemed to me that she was flying and flying, but was still on

the same spot. My father sat down on the grass, in a long mantle. He had

one hand in the bosom of his coat, and with the other he smoothed down

the grass. He looked up at the star-spangled sky, and coughed and

coughed. His face was like death, silvery white. He was sitting on the

exact spot where the little knife was hidden. He knew nothing of what

was in the earth under him. Ah, if he only knew! What, for instance,

would he say, and what would happen to me?

"Aha!" thought I within myself, "you threw away my knife with the curved

blade, and now I have a nicer and a better one. You are sitting on it,

and you know nothing. Oh, father, father!"

"Why do you stare at me like a tom-cat?" asked my father. "Why do you

sit with folded arms like a self-satisfied old man? Can you not find

something to do? Have you said the night prayer? May the devil not take

you, scamp! May an evil end not come upon you! Tkeh-heh-heh!"

When he says may the devil _not_ take you, and may an evil end _not_

come upon you, then he is not angry. On the contrary, it is a sign that

he is in a good humour. And, surely, how could one help being in a good

humour on such a wonderfully beautiful night, when every one is drawn

out of doors into the street, under the soft, fresh, brilliant sky?

Every one is now out of doors--my father, my mother, and the younger

children who are looking for little stones and playing in the sand. Herr

Hertz Hertzenhertz was going about in the yard, without a hat, smoking a

cigar, and singing a German song. He looked at me, and laughed. Probably

he was laughing because my father was driving me away. But I laughed at

them all. Soon they would be going to bed, and I would go out into the

yard (I slept in the open, before the door, because of the great heat),

and I would rejoice in, and play with my knife.

The house is asleep. It is silent around and about. Cautiously I get up;

I am on all fours, like a cat; and I steal out into the yard. The night

is silent. The air is fresh and pure. Slowly I creep over to the spot

where the little knife lies buried. I take it out carefully, and look at

it by the light of the moon. It shines and glitters, like guinea-gold,

like a diamond. I lift up my eyes, and I see that the moon is looking

straight down on my knife. Why is she looking at it so? I turn round.

She looks after me. Maybe she knows whose knife it is, and where I got

it? Got it? Stole it!

For the first time since the knife came into my hands has this terrible

word entered my thoughts. Stolen? Then I am, in short, a thief, a

common thief? In the Holy Law, in the Ten Commandments, are written, in

big letters: "THOU SHALT NOT STEAL."

Thou shalt not steal. And I have stolen. What will they do to me in hell

for that? Woe is me! They will cut off my hand--the hand that stole.

They will whip me with iron rods. They will roast and burn me in a hot

oven. I will glow for ever and ever. The knife must be given back. The

knife must be put back in its place. One must not hold a stolen knife.

Tomorrow I will put it back.

That was what I decided. And I put the knife into my bosom. I imagined

it was burning, scorching me. No, it must be hidden again, buried in the

earth till tomorrow. The moon still looked down on me. What was she

looking at? The moon saw. She was a witness.

I crept back to the house, to my sleeping-place. I lay down again, but

could not sleep. I tossed about from side to side, but could not fall

asleep. It was already day when I dozed off. I dreamt of a moon, I

dreamt of iron rods, and I dreamt of little knives. I got up very early,

said my prayers with pleasure, with delight, ate my breakfast while

standing on one foot, and marched off to "_Cheder_."

"Why are you in such a hurry for '_Cheder_'?" cried my father to me.

"What is driving you? You will not lose your knowledge if you go a

little later. You will have time enough for mischief. You scamp! You

epicurean! You heathen! Tkeh-heh-heh-heh!"

* * *

"Why so late? Just look at this." The teacher stopped me, and pointed

with his finger at my comrade, Berrel the red one, who was standing in

the corner with his head down.

"Do you see, bandit? You must know that from this day his name is not

Berrel the red one, as he was called. He is now called a fine name. His

name is now Berrel the thief. Shout it out, children. Berrel the thief!

Berrel the thief!"

The teacher drew out the words, and put a little tune into them. The

pupils repeated them after him, like a chorus.

"Berrel the thief--Berrel the thief!"

I was petrified. A cold wave passed over my body. I did not know what it

all meant.

"Why are you silent, you heathen, you?" cried the teacher, and gave me

an unexpected smack in the face. "Why are you silent, you heathen? Don't

you hear the others singing? Join in with them, and help them. Berrel

the thief--Berrel the thief!"

My limbs trembled. My teeth rattled. But, I helped the others to shout

aloud "Berrel the thief! Berrel the thief!"

"Louder, heathen," prompted the teacher. "In a stronger

voice--stronger."

And I, along with the rest of the choir, sang out in a variety of

voices, "Berrel the thief--Berrel the thief!"

"Sh--sh--sh--a--a--ah!" cried the teacher, banging the table with his

open hand. "Hush! Now we will betake ourselves to pronouncing

judgment." He spoke in a sing-song voice.

"Ah, well, Berrel thief, come over here, my child. Quicker, a little

quicker. Tell me, my boy, what your name is." This also was said in a

sing-song.

"Berrel."

"What else?"

"Berrel--Berrel the thief."

"That's right, my dear child. Now you are a good boy. May your strength

increase, and may you grow stronger in every limb!" (Still in the same

sing-song.) "Take off your clothes. That's right. But can't you do it

quicker? I beg of you, be quick about it. That's right, little Berrel,

my child."

Berrel stood before us as naked as when he was born. Not a drop of blood

showed in his body. He did not move a limb. His eyes were lowered. He

was as dead as a corpse.

The teacher called out one of the older scholars, still speaking in the

same sing-song voice:

"Well, now, Hirschalle, come out from behind the table, over here to me.

Quicker. Just so. And now tell us the story from beginning to end--how

our Berrel became a thief. Listen, boys, pay attention."

And Hirschalle began to tell the story. Berrel had got the little

collecting box of "Reb" Mayer the "Wonder-worker," into which his mother

threw a "_kopek_," sometimes two, every Friday, before lighting the

Sabbath candles. Berrel had fixed his eyes on that box, on which there

hung a little lock. By means of a straw gummed at the end, he had

managed to extract the "_kopeks_" from the box, one by one. His mother,

Slatte, the hoarse one, suspecting something wrong, opened the box, and

found in it one of the straws tipped with gum. She beat her son Berrel.

And after the whipping she had prevailed on the teacher to give him, he

confessed that for a whole year--a round year, he had been extracting

the "_kopeks_," one by one, and that, every Sunday, he had bought

himself two little cakes, some locust beans, and--and so forth, and so

forth.

"Now, boys, pronounce judgment on him. You know how to do it. This is

not the first time. Let each give his verdict, and say what must be done

to a boy who steals '_kopeks_' from a charity-box, by means of a straw."

The teacher put his head to one side. He closed his eyes, and turned his

right ear to Hirschalle. Hirschalle answered at the top of his voice:

"A thief who steals '_kopeks_' from a charity-box should be flogged

until the blood spurts from him."

"Moshalle, what is to be done to a thief who steals '_kopeks_' from a

charity-box?"

"A thief," replied Moshalle, in a wailing voice, "a thief who steals

'_kopeks_' from a charity-box should be stretched out. Two boys should

be put on his head, two on his feet, and two should flog him with

pickled rods."

"Topalle Tutteratu, what is to be done to a thief who steals '_kopeks_'

from a charity-box?"

Kopalle Kuckaraku, a boy who could not pronounce the letters K and G,

wiped his face, and gave his verdict in a squeaking voice.

"A boy who steals 'topets' from the charity-bots should be punished lite

this. Every boy should do over to him, and shout into his face, three

times, thief, thief, thief."

The whole school laughed. The master put his thumb on his wind-pipe,

like a cantor, and called out to me, as if I were a bridegroom being

called up, at the synagogue, to read the portion of the Law for the

week:

"Tell me, now, my dear little boy, what would you say should be done to

a thief who steals '_kopeks_' from a charity-box."

I tried to reply, but my tongue would not obey me. I shivered as with

ague. Something was in my throat, choking me. A cold sweat broke out all

over my body. There was a whistling in my ears. I saw before me, not the

teacher, nor the naked Berrel the thief, nor my comrades. I saw before

me only knives--pocket-knives without an end, white, open knives that

had many blades. And there, beside the door, hung the moon. She looked

at me, and smiled, like a human being. My head was going round. The

whole room--the table and the books, the boys and the moon that hung

beside the door, and the little knives--all were whirling round. I felt

as if my two feet were chopped off. Another moment, and I might have

fallen down, but I controlled myself with all my strength, and I did not

fall.

In the evening, I came home, and felt that my face was burning. My

cheeks were on fire, and in my ears was a hissing noise. I heard some

one speaking to me, but what they said I do not know. My father was

saying something, and seemed to be angry. He wanted to beat me. My

mother intervened. She spread out her apron, as a clucking hen spreads

out her wing to defend her chickens from injury. I heard nothing, and

did not want to hear. I only wanted the darkness to fall sooner, so that

I might make an end of the little knife. What was I to do with it?

Confess everything, and give it up? Then I would suffer the same

punishment as Berrel. Throw it carelessly somewhere? But I may be

caught? Throw it away, and no more, so long as I am rid of it? Where was

I to throw it in order that it might not be found by anybody? On the

roof? The noise would be heard. In the garden? It might be found. Ah, I

know! I have a plan, I'll throw it into the water. A good plan, as I

live. I'll throw it into the well that is in our own yard. This plan

pleased me so much that I did not wish to dwell on it longer. I took up

the knife, and ran off straight to the well. It seemed to me that I was

carrying in my hand not a knife but something repulsive--a filthy little

creature of which I must rid myself at once. But, still I was sorry. It

was such a fine little knife. For a moment, I stood thinking, and it

seemed to me that I was holding in my hand a living thing. My heart

ached for it. Surely, surely, it has cost me so much heartache. It is a

pity for the living. I summoned all my courage, and let it out suddenly

from my fingers. Plash! The water bubbled up for a moment. Nothing more

was heard, and my knife was gone. I stood a moment at the well and

listened. I heard nothing. Thank God, I was rid of it. My heart was

faint, and full of longing. Surely, it was a fine knife--such a knife!

* * *

I went back to bed, and saw that the moon was still looking down at me.

And it seemed to me she had seen everything I had done. From the

distance a voice seemed to be saying to me: "But, you are a thief all

the same. Catch him, beat him. He is a thief, a thief."