Jewish Children Part 12

"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.

That is how I went to gather greens for "_Shevuous_."

Another Page from "The Song of Songs"

"Quicker, Busie, quicker!" I said to her the day before the "_Shevuous_." I took her by the hand, and we went quickly up the hill.

"The day will not stand still, little fool. And we have to climb such a high hill. After the hill we have another stream. Over the stream there are some boards--a little bridge. The stream flows, the frogs croak, and the boards shake and tremble. On the other side of the bridge, over there is the real Garden of Eden--over there begins my real property."

"Your property?"

"I mean the Levada--a big field that stretches away and away, without a beginning and without an end. It is covered with a green mantle, sprinkled with yellow flowers, and nailed down with little red nails. It gives out a delicious odour. The most fragrant spices in the world are there. I have trees there beyond the counting, tall many-branched trees.

I have a little hill there that I sit on when I like. Or else, by p.r.o.nouncing the Holy Name, I can rise up and fly away like an eagle, across the clouds, over fields and woods, over seas and deserts until I come to the other side of the mountain of darkness."

"And from there," puts in Busie, "you walk seven miles until you come to a little stream."

"No. To a thick wood. First I go in and out of the trees, and after that I come to the little stream."

"You swim across the water, and count seven times seven."

"And there appears before me a little old man with a long beard."

"He asks you: 'What is your desire?'"

"I say to him: 'Bring me the Queen's daughter.'"

Busie takes her hand from mine, and runs down the hill. I run after her.

"Busie, why are you running off?"

Busie does not answer. She is vexed. She likes the story I told her excepting the part about the Queen's daughter.

You have not forgotten who Busie is? I told you once. But if you have forgotten, I will tell you again.

I had an older brother, Benny. He was drowned. He left after him a water-mill, a young widow, two horses, and a little child. The mill was neglected; the horses were sold; the widow married again, and went away, somewhere far; and the child was brought to us. This child was Busie.

Ha! ha! ha! Everybody thinks that Busie and I are sister and brother.

She calls my mother "mother," and my father "father." And we two live together like sister and brother, and love one another, like sister and brother.

Like sister and brother? Then why is Busie ashamed before me?

It happened once that we two were left alone in the house--we two by ourselves in the whole house. It was evening, towards nightfall. My father had gone to the synagogue to recite the mourners' prayer after my dead brother Benny, and my mother had gone out to buy matches. Busie and I crept into a corner, and I told her stories. Busie likes me to tell her stories--fine stories of "_Cheder_," or from the "Arabian Nights."

She crept close to me, and put her hand into mine.

"Tell me something, Shemak, tell me."

Softly fell the night around us. The shadows crept slowly up the walls, paused on the floor, and stole all around. We could hardly, hardly see one another's face. I felt her hand trembling. I heard her little heart beating. I saw her eyes s.h.i.+ning in the dark. Suddenly she drew her hand from mine.

"What is it, Busie?"

"We must not."

"What must we not?"

"Hold each other's hands."