Jewish Children Part 14

Was she crying? I could have torn myself to pieces. What good had it done me to open her wound by speaking of her mother? In my own heart I called myself every bad name I could think of: "Horse, Beast, Ox, Cat, Good-for-nothing, Long-tongue." I drew closer to Busie, and took hold of her hand. I was about to say to her, the words of the "Song of Songs":

"Let me see thy countenance, let me hear thy voice."

Suddenly--How do my father and mother come here?

My father's silver spectacles s.h.i.+ne from the distance. The silver strands of his hair and beard are spread out on the breeze. My mother is waving her shawl at us. We two, Busie and I, remain sitting. We are like paralysed. What are my parents doing here?

They had come to see what we were doing. They were afraid some accident had befallen us--G.o.d forbid! Who could tell? A little bridge, a water, a stream, a stream, a stream! Curious father and mother.

"And where are your green boughs?"

"What green boughs?"

"The green boughs that you went to gather for the '_Shevuous_'

decorations."

Busie and I exchanged glances. I understood her looks. I imagined I heard her saying to me, in the words of the "Song of Songs":

"'O that thou wert as my brother!'.... Why are you not my brother?"

"Well, I expect we shall get some greenery for '_Shevuous_' somehow,"

says my father with a smile. And the silver strands of his silver-white beard glisten like rays of light in the golden red of the sun. "Thank G.o.d the children are well, and that no ill has befallen them."

"Praised be the Lord!" replies my mother to him, wiping her moist red face with the ends of her shawl. And they are both glad. They seem to grow broader than long with delight.

Curious, curious father and mother!

A Pity for the Living

"If you were a good boy, you would help us to sc.r.a.pe the horse-radish until we are ready with the fish for the holy festival."

That was what my mother said to me on the eve of "_Shevuous_," about mid-day. She was helping the cook to prepare the fish for the supper.

The fishes were still alive and wriggling. When they were put into a clay basin and covered with water they were still struggling.

More than any of the others there struggled a little carp with a broad back, and a round head and red eyes. It seemed that the little carp had a strong desire to get back into the river. It struggled hard. It leaped out of the basin, flapped its tail, and splashed the water right into my face. "Little boy, save me! Little boy, save me!"

I wiped my face, and betook myself to the task of sc.r.a.ping the horse-radish for the supper. I thought within myself, "Poor little fish.

I can do nothing for you. They will soon take you in hand. You will be scaled and ripped open, cut into pieces, put in a pot, salted and peppered, placed on the fire, and boiled and simmered, and simmered, and simmered."

"It's a pity," I said to my mother. "It's a pity for the living."

"Of whom is it a pity?"

"It's a pity of the little fishes."

"Who told you that?"

"The teacher."

"The teacher?"

She exchanged glances with the cook who was helping her, and they both laughed aloud.

"You are a fool, and your teacher a still greater fool. Ha! ha! Sc.r.a.pe the horse-radish, sc.r.a.pe away."

That I was a fool I knew. My mother told me that frequently, and my brothers and my sisters too. But that my teacher was a greater fool than I--that was news to me.

I have a comrade, Pinalle, the "_Shochet's_" son. I was at his house one day, and I saw how a little girl carried a fowl, a huge c.o.c.k, its legs tied with a string. My comrade's father, the "_Shochet_," was asleep, and the little girl sat at the door and waited. The c.o.c.k, a fine strong bird, tried to get out of the girl's arms. He drove his strong feet into her, pecked at her hand, let out from his throat a loud "c.o.c.k-a-doodle-doo!" protested as much as he could. But the girl was no weakling either. She thrust the head of the rooster under her arm and dug her elbows into him, saying:

"Be still, you wretch!"

And he obeyed and remained silent.

When the "_Shochet_" woke up, he washed his hands and took out his knife. He motioned to have the bird handed to him. I imagined that the c.o.c.k changed colour. He must have thought that he was going to be freed to race back to his hens, to the corn and the water. But it was not so.

The "_Shochet_" turned him round, caught him between his knees, thrust back his head with one hand, with the other plucked out a few little feathers, p.r.o.nounced a blessing--heck! the knife was drawn across his throat. He was cast away. I thought he would fall to pieces.

"Pinalle, your father is a heathen," I said to my comrade.

"Why is he a heathen?"

"He has in him no pity for the living."

"I did not know you were so clever," said my comrade, and he pulled a long nose right into my face.

Our cook is blind of one eye. She is called "Fruma with the little eye."

She is a girl without a heart. She once beat the cat with nettles for having run away with a little liver from the board. Afterwards, when she counted the fowls and the livers, it turned out that she had made a mistake. She had thought there were seven fowls, and, of course, seven little livers, and there were only six. And if there were only six fowls there could be only six little livers. Marvellous! She had accused the cat wrongly.

You might imagine that Fruma was sorry and apologized to the cat. But it appeared she forgot all about it. And the cat, too, forgot all about it. A few hours later she was lying on the stove, licking herself as if nothing had happened. It's not for nothing that people say: "A cat's brains!"

But I did not forget. No, I did not forget. I said to the cook: "You beat the cat for nothing. You had a sin for no reason. It was a pity for the living. The Lord will punish you."

"Will you go away, or else I'll give it you across the face with the towel."

That is what "Fruma with the little eye" said to me. And she added:

"Lord Almighty! Wherever in the world do such children come from?"