Jewish Children Part 25

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? G.o.d 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 n.o.body. 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 bra.s.s 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!"