Jewish Children Part 27

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 hoa.r.s.e 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, p.r.o.nounce 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 p.r.o.nounce 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 s.h.i.+vered 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 ap.r.o.n, 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. Plas.h.!.+ 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 G.o.d, 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."

I stole back into the house, and into my own bed.

I dreamt that I ran, swept through the air. I flew with my little knife in my hand. And the moon looked at me and said:

"Catch him, beat him. He is a thief--a thief."

A long, long sleep, and a heavy, a very heavy dream. A fire burnt within me. My head was buzzing. Everything I saw was red as blood. Burning rods of fire cut into my flesh. I was swimming in blood. Around me wriggled snakes and serpents. They had their mouths open, ready to swallow me.

Right into my ears some one was blowing a trumpet. And, some one was standing over me, and shouting, keeping time with the trumpet: "Whip him, whip him, whip him. He is a thie--ef." And I myself shouted: "Oh, oh, take the moon away from me. Give her up the little knife. What have you against poor Berrel? He is not guilty. It is I who am a thief--a thief."

Beyond that, I remember nothing.

I opened one eye, then the other. Where was I? On a bed, I think. Ah, is that you, mother, mother? She does not hear me. Mother, mother, mo--o--other! What is this? I imagine I am shouting aloud. Shah! I listen. She is weeping silently. I also see my father, with his yellow, sickly face. He is sitting near me, an open book in his hand. He reads, and sighs, and coughs and groans. It seems that I am dead already.

Dead?... All at once, I feel that it is growing brighter before my eyes.

Everything is growing lighter, too. My head and my limbs are lighter.

There is a ringing in my ear, and in my other ear. Tschinna! I sneezed.

Akhstchu!

"Good health! May your days be lengthened! May your years be prolonged!

It is a good sign. Blessed art Thou, O Lord!"

"Sneezed in reality? Blessed be the Most High!"

"Let us call at once Mintze the butcher's wife. She knows how to avert the evil eye."

"The doctor ought to be called--the doctor."

"The doctor? What for? That is nonsense. The Most High is the best doctor. Blessed be the Lord, and praised be His Name!"

"Go asunder, people. Separate a bit. It is terribly hot. In the name of G.o.d, go away."

"Ah, yes. I told you that you have to cover him with wax. Well, who is right?"

"Praise be the Lord, and blessed be His Holy Name! Ah, G.o.d! G.o.d! Blessed be the Lord! and praised be His Holy Name!"

They fluttered about me. They looked at me. Each one came and felt my head. They prayed over me, and buzzed around me. They licked my forehead, and spat out, by way of a charm. They poured hot soup down my throat, and filled my mouth with spoonfuls of preserves. Every one flew around me. They cared for me as if I were the apple of their eye. They fed me with broths and tiny chickens, as if I were an infant. They did not leave me alone. My mother sat by me always, and told me over and over again the whole story of how they had lifted me up from the ground, almost dead, and how I had been lying for two weeks on end, burning like a fire, croaking like a frog, and muttering something about whippings and little knives. They already imagined I was dead, when suddenly I sneezed seven times. I had practically come to life again.

"Now we see what a great G.o.d we have, blessed be He, and praised be His Name!" That was how my mother ended up, the tears springing to her eyes.

"Now we can see that when we call to Him He listens to our sinful requests and our guilty tears. We shed a lot, a lot of tears, your father and I, until the Lord had pity on us.... We nearly, nearly lost our child through our sinfulness. May we suffer in your stead! And through what? Through a boy who was a thief, a certain Berrel whom the teacher flogged at '_Cheder_,' almost until he bled. When you came home from '_Cheder_' you were more dead than alive. May your mother suffer instead of you! The teacher is a tyrant, a murderer. The Lord will punish him for it--the Lord of the Universe. No, my child, if the Lord lets us live, when you get well, we will send you to another teacher, not to such a tyrant as is the 'Angel of Death,'--may his name be blotted out for ever!"

These words made a terrible impression on me. I threw my arms around my mother, and kissed her.

"Dear, dear mother."

And my father came over to me softly. He put his cold, white hand on my forehead, and said to me kindly, without a trace of anger:

"Oh, how you frightened us, you heathen you! Tkeh-heh-heh-heh!"

Also the Jewish German, or the German Jew, Herr Hertz Hertzenhertz, his cigar between his teeth, bent down and touched my cheek, with his clean-shaven chin. He said to me in German:

"Good! Good! Be well--be well!"

A few weeks after I got out of bed, my father said to me:

"Well, my son, now go to '_Cheder_,' and never think of little knives again, or other such nonsense. It is time you began to be a bit of a man. If it please G.o.d, you will be '_Bar-Mitzvah_' in three years--may you live to a hundred and twenty. Tkeh-heh-heh!"