Yiddish Folktales

by Beatrice Weinreich

  The gilgl told them that he had once transmigrated into a dog, a very quiet yellow dog that my father himself had seen. Then Gentile boys killed the dog, so the gilgl entered into a horse, but the horse died, so he entered into a tree. Then Shmuel-Yoysef of Paluzh bought the forest and had the tree cut down, after which the gilgl entered into the girl.

  He tormented the girl so severely that finally they went to the Rabbi of Oshmen. And the rabbi quarreled with the gilgl, because the gilgl wanted to leave by the girl’s throat and the rabbi wanted him to leave through one of her little fingers. At last he did leave, and a great shot was heard. The story is told that before he went, he asked that candles be distributed for the sake of his soul. After that, the rabbi advised the family to sell the house and leave the town. They followed the rabbi’s advice and emigrated to America.

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  Who’s Milking the Cows?

  There was a dairyman who had several cows that gave a great deal of milk. When they suddenly went dry, he realized that someone must be milking them. He watched them carefully all day but saw no one, yet when he tried to milk them the next morning, he couldn’t get even a glassful from them. That night at nine o’clock, the man went into the cow barn. He lighted a candle and set it under a great barrel, hid himself in a corner, and settled down for the night. At two in the morning he heard footsteps; then a tiny man and a tiny woman came into the barn. They both wore little caps, and the woman’s hair was braided and tied with pretty ribbons. He watched as they seated themselves on milking stools, set buckets under the cows, and started in to milk. At that the man upended the barrel, and when his candle lit up the barn the kapelyushniklekh, the little cap-wearers, started running. The male got away, but the dairyman was able to catch the female, and he beat her severely. She pleaded with him, saying, “If you spare my life we’ll never come back, and your cows will give double the amount of milk they used to.”

  And that’s exactly what happened.

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  The Passover Elf Helps great-grandmother

  One Saturday evening in fall, after the holidays, my great-grandmother was standing beside the stove rendering down goose fat. She was all alone in the kitchen; the house was hushed and still. Suddenly in the chimney corner, she saw a tiny hand stretched out, palm up, as if it were asking for something. She felt terribly frightened but forced herself to remain calm while she put a piece of crackling into the little hand. Then she started to pour the rendered fat from the frying pan into containers. But no matter how often she poured from the pan, it stayed full. She poured and poured until every vessel in the house was brimming with fat. Every pot, every pitcher, every tub. And the fat continued to flow as from a spring.

  About midnight my great-grandfather woke up and saw that the kitchen was brightly lighted and his wife was still standing at the stove. He got out of bed and said irritably, “Why are you fussing with the fat at this hour? It’s almost dawn.”

  “Well,” said my great-grandmother, “there went that. Too bad. Our household was being blessed: we had an elf, a shretele, in the house, and now you’ve chased it away.”

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  The Old Shul in Motele

  In the town of Motele there is a synagogue about which tales of wonder are told. I have heard them myself from an old man who lived there. Listen now to what they say about that synagogue:

  There was once a rabbi in the town who was a great genius and a saintly man, a tsadek, may his memory be blessed. Even the Gentiles greatly respected him.

  One day it happened that the lord of a nearby castle got sick (God keep us from the same) and the doctors despaired of his life. The nobleman decided to send a servant to the holy man to ask him for a blessing. As it happened, the nobleman was actually a great anti-Semite but, because he was in such trouble, the rabbi was willing to give him a blessing.

  And afterward the nobleman did indeed recover. Since the town of Motele did not have a synagogue, the lord had the idea of donating lumber to the Jewish community so it could build one. He gave the Jews twelve of the largest trees in his woods, and from those twelve trees they built a synagogue so large that today it holds a congregation of two hundred.

  A considerable time has passed since its construction, but the synagogue still looks practically new. And to this day, when a misfortune (God forbid) happens in the town—when someone is sick, for instance, or a disaster threatens the community, people gather to pray at the grave of the holy rabbi, may his memory be blessed.

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  The Blacksmith and the Horses with Human Hands

  In 1904 I arrived in Dorohobuzh, and in May I traveled from Horets to the station. We passed through a village called Visokoye, where there was a blacksmith who lived in a beautiful two-story house with a balcony and an orchard. Astonished by all this, I asked, “How did a blacksmith get to be so rich?” So they told me the following tale:

  Once on a Shrovetide evening, there was a knocking on the smith’s door at midnight. He came out and a group of men asked him to shoe four horses. He didn’t want to, but they pleaded with him and promised that he would be well paid. He finally agreed, fired up his forge, and went to work.

  When he took up one of the horses’ feet, it turned out not to be a hoof, but a human foot. Human feet and human hands! He was too terrified to go on, but the men stood over him and threatened him with whips as they ordered him to shoe the horses.

  Trembling, he obeyed. When his work was done, they poured out a great pile of golden coins for him. He let the coins fall from one hand into the other, and the money was transformed into hot coals.

  Just then it turned three in the morning and all the roosters began to crow. He looked around and saw nothing: no money, no coals, no people, no horses. He was so frightened that he fainted dead away.

  In the blacksmith’s house the family noticed that the smithy had gone dark and silent. They too were afraid and, taking up torches, went out to see what was wrong. In the smithy they found the blacksmith lying unconscious. There was a pot filled with gold rubles by his side.

  He has been a rich man from that time to this. The story is well known in Dorohobuzh, and when the peasants drink with the blacksmith, they always say, “The devil’s tricks don’t bother you!”

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  The Mysterious Gold Chain

  In the old days people used to celebrate the end of the Sabbath with a third meal, a considerable gathering. Just as if they were in the homes of the rich, they served many dishes: borsht, potatoes … Once, just as the Sabbath ended, Khane was sent to bring wood from the shed. As she entered it, a glittering chain dropped from the ceiling and lay upon her neck. A heavy gold chain. Without a moment’s hesitation Khane spread the skirt of her dress and began to gather the chain into it. She pulled and pulled and pulled, as if she were milking a cow.

  Inside the house they waited for the wood so they could begin cooking the meal. Khane didn’t come. “Khane,” they called, but there was no reply because she couldn’t interrupt what she was doing. Finally someone opened the door of the shed and called, “Khane,” at which the chain broke with a clang and half of it flew up and disappeared. What was left was worth a fortune, and so all the children were well married.

  Things like that don’t happen nowadays. And generally, these miracles used to take place only at the close of the Sabbath.

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  The Unquiet Grave

  The grave of the great Rabbi Moses ben Israel Isserles, who was called the Rema, is in Cracow. Once there was a poor young man who went to the caretaker of the cemetery and asked to buy a plot near the Rema’s grave. At first the caretaker refused to sell him one because he thought these should be reserved for dignitaries, but then he began to think: “I’m an old man, after all, and I’m sure to die before him. So who’ll know whether I ever sold him the plot?” Reasoning thus, he finally accepted the man’s money for a plot near the Rema.

  The very next day a death was reported—and it was that of the young man who ha
d bought the plot. The caretaker was afraid to tell anyone what he had done, so he simply had the man buried in a different plot. Soon afterward the dead man’s ghost began to appear in the caretaker’s dreams, demanding the plot he had bought. Night after night the ghost disturbed the caretaker’s rest. Finally the caretaker decided to go to the rabbi with the whole story and to get his advice.

  The rabbi said, “Tell the ghost that he can move to the other plot. A promise should not be broken.” So that’s what the caretaker told the ghost when it paid its next visit.

  The following day it was observed that there was a new grave near the place where the Rema was buried. Meanwhile the grave of the recently buried man collapsed in on itself. Soon afterward a gravestone was placed on the unidentified new grave, reading, “Here lies a person unknown.”

  It’s said that the gravestone can be seen there to this day.

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  The Large Stone Synagogue of Berditshev

  In Berditshev—I believe it was in the days of Reb Levi Yitskhok of Berditshev—there lived a rabbi, a very holy man. Reb Liber was his name. He was a quiet, inward person fond of going out into the fields to pray. One day the nobleman of the town went by as Reb Liber was saying his prayers near a tree. Seeing someone standing rigidly under a tree in an open field, the count sent a guard to ask what he was doing. The rabbi made no response to the question. The count then ordered that the man be brought to him. The guard took the rabbi and escorted him forcibly to the carriage, but the rabbi did not reply no matter how often he was addressed. This so angered the nobleman that he ordered his men to give the rabbi thirty lashes. Reb Liber bore the punishment without so much as a sigh. When he was released, he went back to the tree and resumed his prayers. This astonished the nobleman, and he decided to wait in order to see what would come of it all. When Reb Liber finished his prayers, he went up to the count and said quietly, “Tell me, brother, what was it you wanted to ask? I’m ready to answer your question.”

  Surprised, the nobleman said, “I want to ask two questions: First, why did you refuse to answer when I spoke to you before? And second, why do you call me ‘brother,’ since I’ve had you so cruelly beaten?”

  Reb Liber replied, “I was unable to answer you because when you asked your questions, I was in the presence of the Lord of all Lords, and I was making an accounting to Him of my life in this world. So you see, I could not be interrupted. And I called you brother because all men are God’s children, and as children of the same Father they are then brothers.”

  “But weren’t you inclined to hate me for having you beaten?”

  “No. In fact, I pitied you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it was not you who was beating me. It was God who was punishing me. And I pitied you because God had chosen you to be His instrument in a matter as dreadful as beating a fellow human.”

  These words made a deep impression on the nobleman. He said, “I see that you are a pious man and I’m sorry I had you beaten. I beg you to pardon me and to give me a penance.”

  “I pardon you freely. As for a penance, pledge that you will never henceforth raise a hand against a brother.”

  “Does that include my peasants? Can’t I even beat them?”

  “They too are the children of God, and your brothers.”

  The nobleman gave his word. Then, to console Reb Liber for having had him beaten, he made this promise: “I will cause a synagogue to be built here on this spot where you prayed and where I had you beaten.”

  And he kept his word. He had a great stone synagogue built, and when the town of Berditshev grew, that synagogue turned out to be in the very heart of the town.

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  The Golem of Vilna

  If you know the secret Name of God, you can build worlds and you can destroy them. You can move mountains. You can also make a human being—a living person—out of clay. A golem.

  One such golem was made by a great rabbi, a gaon, a genius. Oh, what marvelous consolation that golem was for the Jews! The rabbi created him so that he could provide the Jews with fish for the Sabbath. He would send the golem into the depths of the river, where the golem, using the language of fish, called them together, trapped them in a net, and distributed them to the Jews.

  The Vilna Gaon formed this golem out of sand and clay and water. And since the Gaon, may heaven be radiant for him, was a scholar and knew the five Books of Moses and the Commentaries all by heart, as well as all the secrets of the Cabala—since he knew all that, he also knew the blessed Lord’s secret Name of Names and had written it down on a piece of paper. This he put into the golem’s ear, and it was the writing on the paper that turned the clay into a living human being.

  The golem could leap from roof to roof, like a bird, and he could disguise himself so that nobody knew who he was. He could drift through the air like a breeze on a cold day. Ah, what was there he couldn’t do?

  He was at once human and inhuman. For instance, the Gaon could send him to the synagogue to extinguish the Sabbath candles, because, though he had the appearance of a human being, he was not really human and therefore not required to fulfill all the prescriptions of the Torah. He was allowed to violate the Sabbath.

  But his most important work was to defend the faithful on holidays and market days, when drunken peasants turned ugly and started to beat Jews. It was then that the Gaon turned the golem loose. Ah, how the golem used to crack their heads and break their arms and legs! There was no way they could escape from him. Sometimes he was on the rooftop, sometimes underwater in the river, sticking out his long stone tongue. When the governor heard about him … ah Lord, Lord … the golem, I mean the Gaon, sent the golem to slap the governor around a bit.

  When the Gaon decided that he did not want the golem to be a golem any longer, he simply removed the bit of paper with the Name of Names on it from the golem’s ear. He did so because, may the good Lord be thanked, there are now plenty of fish in the marketplace. Even such poor folk as we are can afford a bit of carp for the Sabbath. Besides (and I hope never to see the day), should the time come when we do need the golem again, there will be someone to revive him. A new gaon will arise who will put the terrifying bit of paper into his ear. But I trust God will protect us from that. It will be much better if we never have need of the golem again.

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  The Baal Shem Tov and the Gilgl

  In a prophetic vision, the Baal Shem foresaw that a certain young woman would die on a Friday on her way to the wedding canopy. So he ordered his horses to be harnessed and started off to her town. When was it he made the journey? Three or four days before the wedding.

  Arriving at the town, he went to the home of a tenant innkeeper and said, “May I spend the night?”

  “Of course,” was the reply. “You’re welcome to spend the Sabbath with us. There’s going to be a wedding on Friday.”

  Friday came and the bride died. The town was in an uproar. The groom wept and wailed. The mother wept and wailed. Just think, a bride dead before her wedding.

  People brought the news to the Baal Shem. “Don’t be disturbed,” he said, “I’ll be there soon. Meanwhile, gather the burial society together.”

  When he got there, he saw that the bride was dead. “Carry her to the cemetery,” he said, “but take her bridal dress with you. Who knows what may yet happen?”

  They dug her grave and put her in it, face up. Then the Baal Shem asked them to select two strong men and told them to get into the grave, one on one side of the bride, one on the other. He cautioned them not to get any earth on themselves. “And be sure to watch her,” he said. “Never lose sight of her. Don’t look at anyone but her. Just stand there. If you see the Eternal One looking down on her, or if you see an expression on her face, don’t be frightened. Soon she will turn pale, then color will come into her face. If you see her eyes opening, lift her out of the grave at once.”

  And that’s what happened. And when they took her out of the grave, the groom was the
re and the Baal Shem too, leaning on his stick, looking down. “Dress her in her bridal dress,” he said. “Set up four poles and this sheet, and get ready to lead her to the canopy.”

  They did everything he told them to. Then the bride and groom were led to the khupe and the ceremony took place as if she had not died.

  Well, how was all that possible? The answer is this: a gilgl had taken possession of the young woman sometime before. A gilgl is the transmigrating soul of someone who has died. And the time had come for this gilgl to leave her body, and in order for him to do that, she had to die. And so she did. But when the Baal Shem said to the gilgl, “I order you to leave her,” the gilgl fled and the bride’s soul returned to her body.

  And so she was led to the wedding canopy, after which they all rode away.

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  The Shretele That Took a Little Nip

  Reb Shiye Heshl, a bookbinder, tells this story:

  “My grandmother used to tell all sorts of tales, but I have to say that she never told any lies. Once she told us that one day when she was lying in bed, she saw an elf, a shretele, crawl out from under it. Her baby was also lying in the bed and crying. The shretele went up to it and rocked it for a while, then gave the baby a light slap which made it stop crying. After that the shretele trotted up to a cupboard where a flask of brandy was stored. It took out the brandy, had a few nips, and ran back under the bed.

  “Well, from that time on, my grandmother never had to buy brandy, because no matter how much you poured out of the flask the shretele had sipped from, it always remained full.”

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