8 Great Hebrew Short Novels

by Неизвестный

  How resplendent was my booth during the Feast of Tabernacles. We hung from its boughs red lanterns and assembled in it the finest of the household utensils. As Leah made to hand me the mizrah, a ring came undone and fell from one of its corners. Leah took the ring and slipped it on my finger. She then untied the crimson ribbon fastened to her locks and with it secured the mizrah to the wall, reading out loud, “Blessed is he who shall not forsake Thee.” I read on, “And he who shall cleave unto Thee.” Suddenly we both blushed, for her father and mother were peering in, their faces beaming with joy. They called me master of the house as we sat together in the booth, and they thought of themselves as my guests. Leah came to the booth at least seven times a day. Sometimes she brought food and other times she cleared the table. And we thanked God for raising us toward love. How resplendent was my booth during the Feast of the Tabernacles. But the festive booth is now stocked with beans and lentils. A bean merchant has rented the booth to store his merchandise, and having left my home and abandoned my booth, I have rented a room on the outskirts of the town. My lodgings are small and peaceful. An old woman tends to my needs, she prepares my meals and washes my linen. I am surrounded by peace and quiet, yet my heart knows no peace. Mr. Mintz, who has rented the booth, is a wealthy man. His trade has spread throughout the land and Leah’s father has promised him his daughter’s hand in marriage. And I am but a poor and unworthy teacher. They befriended me when I came from the city. Ah, they drew near me with their words while their hearts were elsewhere. How strange are the ways of my brethren.

  In addition to teaching Leah language and literature I also taught her Hebrew. Her parents had been happy to see her learning the Holy Tongue. But her father came to envy her knowledge, and he drew us apart. Ah, sir, surely she will not forget all that I taught her. She will brood over the poems I have written, and though she has left me she will hold fast to my teachings.

  One day I went into town and saw Leah’s father and swiftly made to leave. But he ran after me and said, “Why have you run off, I must talk to you.” My heart pounded. I knew he had nothing to say that could possibly calm me and yet I stood and listened. He is Leah’s father, I thought, he will speak of Leah. He then glanced sideways and seeing that no one was in sight, continued, “My daughter is ill. She has her brother’s illness.” I remained silent and he continued as he had begun, “She was not born for toil, physical labor will be the death of her. If I don’t find her some calm and comfort she will die before my own time has come.” He appeared suddenly to take fright at his own words. At last he raised his voice and blurted out, “Mintz is a wealthy man, her health will be restored under his care. That is why I have promised her to him. He will send her to the mineral springs and will provide for all her needs.”

  “Ah, sir, another illness altogether afflicts your daughter’s heart, which all the spas cannot heal. And I said I would cure her, but you drew us apart.”

  As I moved away from the man I slipped off the ring Leah had given to me. For she is engaged to another man. And a sudden chill swept over my finger.

  So ended the chronicles of Akaviah Mazal.

  1

  Twice, three times a week my father arrived at the Gottliebs and dined with us in the garden. A soothing dusk veiled the table and dishes. We ate by the light of the fireflies. The red lanterns by the tracks lit up the night, for the railroad was not far from the Gottliebs’ home. Rarely was my mother’s name mentioned. And when Mrs. Gottlieb did speak of her you could not tell that the name of the departed was on her lips. When I grew accustomed to her words I understood that she acted out of good sense.

  My father made every possible effort to turn the conversation to my mother, may she rest in peace, exclaiming, “We are the miserable widowers.” How strange his words were—it was as if womankind had died and every man was a widower.

  One day Mr. Gottlieb left to see his brother. He was a wealthy man and Gottlieb hoped he might join his business and contribute to the factory’s expansion. Mintshi, who normally did not like to interfere in her husband’s affairs, let slip more than she wished. Suddenly she realized what she had done and seemed to ask me to forget what she had just recounted, and she told me of her first visit to her father-in-law’s house when the groom had entered and welcomed her, and then had turned on his heel and left. Mintshi had been greatly distressed by his abrupt manner. But he was no sooner gone than he returned, and before she had time to recover he asked to kiss her and she had drawn back, offended. Mintshi had not known at the time that she had been greeted at first not by the groom, but by his brother, whose features were identical to the groom’s.

  The holidays were coming to an end. “Stay until Tuesday evening,” my father said. “I will come Tuesday evening and we will return home together.” He was suddenly seized by a spasm of coughing. Mintshi poured him a glass of water. “Have you caught a cold, Mr. Mintz?” she asked my father. “Indeed,” he answered, “I have considered leaving my work.” We listened in astonishment as he continued, “If not for my daughter I would wipe my hands clean of my trade.” How strange a reply. Does a man leave his trade because of a slight cold? To wear a long face would only have led him to think that he was ill. And so Mrs. Gottlieb said, “What will you do then, write books?” We all laughed. He, the merchant, such a practical man—to sit and write books.

  The train’s whistle sounded. Mrs. Gottlieb exclaimed, “My husband should be here in ten minutes,” and fell silent. Our conversation was cut short as we waited for Mr. Gottlieb to arrive. Mr. Gottlieb entered. Mintshi peered at him intently; her eyes ran over her spouse. Gottlieb rubbed the tip of his nose and chuckled like a man intending to amuse his listeners. He then spoke to us of his travels and what had happened at his brother’s home. On arriving, he had found his brother’s wife sitting with her son. And he lifted the boy up on his lap and he leaped up and whirled him about. They had been surprised, for the boy followed him fearlessly even though he had never seen him before. Mr. Gottlieb’s brother entered while they were playing and the boy stared first at his father and then at his father’s brother—his eyes darting from one to the other in disbelief. All of a sudden he turned his face away, burst into tears and flung his small arms out to his mother, and she embraced him as he buried his face in her bosom.

  1

  I returned home and to school. And my father found me a new Hebrew teacher, a Mr. Segal with whom I studied for many days. Mr. Segal came three times a week, and not liking to skip from subject to subject, he divided my studies into three parts: one day of the week I studied the Bible, another, grammar, and on the third day I studied composition. Segal set out to explain the Holy Writings in a lucid manner, and he did not refrain from teaching me the commentaries of our Sages. Hours were spent over such commentaries and exegeses, leaving us little time for the Book. He spoke to me of all the splendors that until then I had not found in books. Hoping to revive our language, whenever I spoke he would say, “Please, say it in Hebrew.” He spoke with a certain flourish, like an advocate, and delighted whenever he stumbled upon a passage that resonated in his heart, for a prophet had spoken, and the prophets, after all, knew Hebrew.

  Of all the hours spent in study I cherished most those devoted to composition. Segal would relax and lean back, his left hand under his head and his eyes firmly shut. Ever so quietly he would read from the wellsprings of his heart without glancing even once at the book. Like a musician plying his instrument during the darkest hour of the night, his heart brimming to its banks, without a glance at his notes, playing only what God had placed in his heart—so was this man.

  My father paid Segal three reinesh a month for my studies. After clipping the notes together, I would quietly hand them over to Segal. Segal, however, counted the money openly, and exclaimed, “I am not a doctor and don’t need to be paid furtively. I’m a worker and am not ashamed to receive a salary for my labors.”

  And my father toiled ceaselessly at his work. Nor did he rest at night. When I went to
sleep he would remain seated by the lamplight. Sometimes I rose in the morning to find the light still lit beside him, for being preoccupied with his accounts he would forget to extinguish the light. My mother’s name no longer hovered on his lips.

  On the eve of Yom Kippur my father bought two candles: one candle, the candle of the living, he lit in the house, and the other, the memorial candle, he took to the synagogue. My father took the candle to the synagogue, and as I accompanied him, he said, “Don’t forget, tomorrow is Remembrance Day for the souls of the dead.” His voice shook as he spoke. I bent forward and kissed his hand.

  We arrived at the synagogue. I peered through the lattice and saw one man greeting another in the midst of the assembly, asking forgiveness of the other. I then saw my father standing in front of a man without a prayer shawl, and I recognized Akaviah Mazal and my eyes misted with tears.

  The cantor intoned Kol Nidre and his singing waxed from one moment to the next. The candles flickered and the building filled with light. The men swayed between the candles, their faces covered. How I loved the holiness of the day.

  We returned home without speaking a word. The silent stars in the firmament and the candles of the living in each home lit up our way. We took the path leading to the bridge, for my father said, “Let us rest by the water for a while, my throat is choked with dust.” From within the rippling water the nocturnal stars peered out at the stars in the sky. The moon broke through the furrowed clouds and a low murmuring sound rose from the water. From his heavenly heights God sent forth silence. I shall never forget that night. The candle of the living bent its flame towards us as we arrived home. I read the Shema and then slept till morning. I was roused from my sleep in the morning by my father’s voice. We left for the house of prayer. The sky had veiled itself in white as was its custom in autumn. The trees cast their russet leaves earthward and the old womenfolk stood outside, ready to gather the leaves into their homes. From the surrounding farmhouses thin plumes of smoke rose where the dry leaves burned in the stoves. People wrapped in white garments swayed back and forth in the courtyards. We arrived at the synagogue and prayed, meeting in the courtyard between the morning prayer and the additional service, and then again between the additional service and the afternoon prayer. My father asked whether the fast was not too great a strain for me. How my father’s voice confused me.

  I barely saw my father during the holiday. I studied in a Polish school and we were not exempt from class during our own holidays. Returning from school at noon I would find my father and the neighbors crowded together in the succah. I would then sit and eat my meal alone, as there was no room for women in the booth. But I was consoled by the coming of winter. Late in the evening we supped together and then bent over our work by the light of a single lamp. And the white oval shade cast its light over us as our heads merged into one black presence in the shadows. I prepared my lessons and my father put his accounts into order. At nine o’clock Kaila set before us three glasses of tea, two for my father and one for me. My father pushed aside ledger and pen, and reached for the glass of tea. One glass he drained steaming hot, and the second he drained cold after dropping into it a lump of sugar. We then returned to our work, I to my lessons, and my father to his accounts. At ten o’clock my father would rise, stroke my hair, and say, “And now go to sleep, Tirtza.” How I loved his use of the conjunction “and”. I always grew happy in its presence: it was as though all that my father told me was but the continuation of his innermost thoughts. That is, first he spoke to me from within his heart and then out loud. And so I would say to my father, “If you are not going to sleep I too will not sleep, I will stay up with you until you go to sleep.” But my father did not pay attention to my words, so I would go to bed. And when I woke I would find my father still bent over his accounts, his ledgers crowding the table. Had he risen early or had he not slept the entire night? I did not ask nor did I ever find out. Late into the night I told myself: I will go now and appeal to his heart, perhaps he will listen to me and rest. But I would fall fast asleep before ever getting out of bed. I knew my father intended to leave his business, and that wishing to set his accounts in order, he now bent over his affairs with redoubled effort. I did not ask what he would do afterwards.

  I turned sixteen and was no longer obliged by law to attend school. When the school year came to an end my father sent me to the teacher’s college. He did not send me because of my talents. I had no talent for teaching, but I showed little enthusiasm for anything else as yet. I believed at the time that a person’s future was determined by others. And I said that it was good. My relatives and friends were baffled. How in the world will Mintz make a teacher out of his daughter?

  To labor is our lot and therein lies all hope. We knew the teachers among the Hebrew women to be different from the Christian, for the former were sent to remote hamlets where, being Jewish, they were harassed by the cruel-hearted villagers. And one’s earnings were quite spent by the time one arrived at the village, for all of it went on travel. And yet a great number of Hebrew women attended the college.

  The college was a private institution and Mazal was employed there as a teacher. Once a year the principal traveled with his pupils to the district capital where the pupils were examined. The schoolgirls then applied themselves to their studies with redoubled effort. A girl was put to shame if she returned without a certificate in her hand, for the travel expenses were high. And she sewed herself a new dress before departing, and if she returned from the examination and had failed, her rival would say, “Why, you have a new dress. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen it before.” “It is not new,” the girl would answer. And the other would say, “Didn’t you sew it to wear for your examinations? But where is your certificate?” And if the girl happened not to be wearing her new dress, she was asked, “But where is your new dress, the one for your examinations?” That’s how they would remind her of her shameful lack of a certificate. This is why the girls labored unceasingly at their studies. If the brain did not grasp then they drilled their lessons in by rote, for what the brain cannot do, memory shall.

  I was surprised that Mazal gave no sign of recognizing me when I arrived at the college. I asked myself: do I not find favor in his eyes? Does he not know who I am? For days on end I could not keep myself from brooding over such feelings, and I studied twice as hard and was never idle.

  In those days I loved to take solitary walks. No sooner had I finished my lessons than I would set forth to the open fields. If I happened to meet a friend on the way I did not call out a greeting, and when hailed I answered in a low voice, lest the person join me, when all I desired was to walk alone. Winter had arrived.

  One evening I was out walking when I heard a dog barking and then the sound of a man’s footsteps. I recognized the man: it was Mazal. And I wound my handkerchief around my hand and waved it before him in greeting. Mazal stopped in his tracks and asked, “What is wrong, Miss Mintz?” “The dog,” I replied. “Did the dog bite you?” he asked, startled. “The dog bit me,” I answered. “Show me your hand,” he said, almost breathless. “Please,” I said, “bind the handkerchief for me over my wound.” Mazal took hold of my hand with shaking fingers, and as he held my hand I unwound the handkerchief and jumped up in the air, exclaiming as I laughed out loud, “There is nothing, sir! Not a dog, nor a wound.” Mazal was so taken aback by my words that for a moment he could only stand there frozen, not knowing whether to scold me or laugh. But he quickly recovered, and then he too laughed loudly and cheerfully, and said, “Ah, you are a bad girl. How you frightened me.” He then accompanied me home, and before leaving he stared deep into my eyes. And I told myself: surely he now knows that I know he knows my secret. But I thought to myself, I will be grateful if you do not remind me of that which you do know.

  That night I tossed and turned in my bed. I thrust my hand into my mouth and stared at the designs on my handkerchief. I regretted not having asked Mazal into the house. If Mazal had entered we would now b
e sitting in the room and I would not be nursing such delusions. The following morning I rose and gloomily paced about overwrought with emotions. Now I stretched out on my bed and now on the carpet, and I was beguiled by a fickle wind of delusions. Only towards evening was I able to calm down. I was like the neurasthenic who dozes off during the day and starts awake at night. Calling to mind all that I had done the previous day I rose and tied a red string around my wrist as a reminder.

  Now we celebrated the first days of Hanukkah and geese were slaughtered. One day Kaila went to ask the rabbi a question and a man well advanced in age appeared. “When will your father be coming home?” he asked, and I replied, “Sometimes he comes at eight and sometimes at seven-thirty.” “In that case I am early,” he declared, “for it is now five-thirty.” I said, “Yes, it is five-thirty.” And he said, “It doesn’t matter.”

  I drew up a chair for him. “But why should I sit,” he said. “Bring me some water.” And as I poured him tea into a glass, he exclaimed, “He asked for water and she gave him tea.” He then poured some of the tea from the glass onto his hand and cried out, “Well, well, and the mizrah?” Turning towards the wall he continued, “In your grandfather’s house a man didn’t have to ask such questions, for the mizrah hung on the wall.” He then rose to his feet and prayed. I took two, three large, dollops of goose fat and placed them in a bowl on the table. The man finished praying and ate and drank and said, his lips dripping with fat, “Schmaltz, my dear, schmaltz.” “Here,” I said, “I will bring you a napkin to wipe your hands.” “Rather bring me a slice of cake,” he said. “Do you have a cake that doesn’t require hand washing?” “Yes, and enough to spare,” I said. “I will bring you some cake at once.” “Please don’t hurry, you can bring the cake along with the second helping. Will you not give me another helping?” “Why, of course.” “I knew you would, but you still don’t know who I am. It doesn’t matter,” the man said softly. “I’m Gotteskind. So your father is indeed late today.” I glanced at my watch. “It is a quarter after six, my father will not arrive before half-past seven.” “It doesn’t matter,” he repeated. “But do go on with your work. Don’t let me disturb you.” I took a book. And he said, “What’s that you have in your hands?” “A book of geometry,” I replied. Gotteskind seized the book and asked, “And do you know how to play the piano as well? No? Why didn’t they teach you how to play the piano? Why, I’ve just come from the pharmacy where the pharmacist told me he would never wed a woman who didn’t know how to play the piano. ‘Listen, Gotteskind,’ the pharmacist said, ‘I’m prepared to live in a small town since I can’t afford to buy a pharmacy in the city.’ But I failed to mention that he isn’t really a pharmacist but the pharmacist’s assistant. But what does it matter, assistant pharmacist, pharmacist, it’s all one and the same. Surely you’ll say: why, he doesn’t even own a pharmacy. It doesn’t matter, soon enough he’ll purchase himself a pharmacy. ‘And so, Gotteskind,’ the pharmacist said to me, ‘here I am about to settle down in a small town. If my wife doesn’t play the piano she will surely die of boredom.’ So, knowing how to play an instrument is a rare gift indeed, apart from the enjoyment of striking the keys, think of it also as a source of wisdom. But the hour of seven is about to strike and though I said I would go, will your father not be arriving soon?” Gotteskind stroked the wisps of his beard and continued, “Indeed, your father should realize that a faithful friend is waiting for him. And so, man knows least where his good fortune lies. The clock is striking two, three, four, five, six, seven. Let the clock be witness to the truth of my words.” I grew weary, but Gotteskind prattled on, “Why, you didn’t know who I was, nor did you hear mention of my name until today. And I knew you before you were formed, it was through my good services that your mother wedded your father.”