Schnorrers.
The two banes of village life and at the same time the most diverting figures therein were the Schnorrers and the gendarmes or rural policemen. The first-named gentry, wandering Jewish mendicants, who believed in the socialistic doctrine that the world, or at least that part of it which professed Judaism, owed them a living, were a most interesting set and worthy of a special study in themselves. They honored the community frequently with their visits. Some were usually visible in the streets at all seasons of the year, and the services in the synagogue were generally graced by the presence of two or three. In most instances they professed intense piety and then their Tephillin were larger, their Talethim longer, and their prayers louder and more ecstatic than those of the rest of the congregation. They came from anywhere and everywhere. Most of them were of Russian or Polish origin, but there was a goodly sprinkling of individuals of German birth and occasionally a Sephardi from Jerusalem or some other Eastern region, clad in Oriental robes and with a majestic turban upon his head, relieved the monotony of Schnorrerdom and added interest and diversity thereto by his strikingly alien and picturesque appearance. They came in the most diverse guises. Some appeared in the rôle of venerable rabbis with flowing beards, and anxious to display their learning in the law to whomsoever they could induce to listen; others professed to be merchants who had lost their all in ill-starred commercial ventures; while others were wandering apprentices—Handwerksburschen—temporarily out of work. Sometimes they were accompanied by their wives, who were always more voluble and eloquent than their husbands. Sometimes an entire family, grandparents, married sons and daughters and children of all ages, including infants in arms, made their appearance and then the resources of Nordheim charity were severely strained adequately to provide for them.
THEY HONORED THE COMMUNITY FREQUENTLY WITH THEIR VISITS
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These Schnorrers were not beggars in the ordinary sense. They certainly had no humble or suppliant air. They came into the house with the air of calling upon old personal friends, and seemed to think it an entirely self-understood and axiomatic matter that their co-religionists should take upon themselves the duty of caring for their needs. Among them many, no doubt, were genuinely unfortunate and deserving individuals, but there was more than a suspicion that a large proportion had taken up the pursuit of Schnorring as a peculiarly pleasant and profitable vocation. Their reliance upon the charitable disposition of their brethren in faith was well grounded. The Nordheim Jews were guided by the eminently humane and noble principle that it is better that ninety-nine undeserving persons should be aided than that one deserving person should be refused the assistance he required; and, consequently, every applicant for charity, unless it was positively known that he was unworthy, received the help he craved. This help usually took the form of food, lodging, and some money or clothing. A sort of system prevailed. The Schnorrer would first call upon the Parnass, or president of the congregation, who would then give him a ticket, called Plett, a corruption of Billet, upon some member of the congregation, entitling the stranger to food and lodging. These tickets were issued in rotation, and were usually cheerfully honored. Some of the members even had a predilection for entertaining these destitute brethren, and would rival each other in the numbers they accommodate. It was amusing to hear one boast that he had harbored, let us say twenty-seven, Schnorrers during the year, only to be told by another, with triumphant mien, that the number of his non-paying guests had been thirty-five. The most celebrated hostess of this kind was a widow named Hannah. This warm-hearted daughter of Israel strove to fulfil literally the precept of the sages, “Let the poor be the children of thy house.” The days were few when her house did not contain some “guest”; and she would give him of her best, and wait upon him as though his presence was the most distinguished honor. When asked once how it was that she, although not a woman of means, was always ready to receive needy strangers, far more so, indeed, than persons of far greater wealth, Hannah answered: “Why, that is a very simple matter. All that one needs is a Lef and a Loeffel.”
Altogether, the mental attitude of the Nordheim Jews toward their needy and mendicant co-religionists was very different from that which prevails to-day; at any rate, in America. At present the unfortunates who depend upon the aid of their supposedly sympathetic brethren are considered a nuisance; an unsightly excrescence upon the body social to be abolished by all means, if possible. The wretched applicant for relief is rigidly scrutinized and interrogated by lynx-eyed committees until he is made to feel as though he were a criminal on trial for his life. A domiciliary visit is paid to his home by some surly “investigator,” whose efficiency is measured by the number of unfavorable reports he makes. And woe betide the miserable one whose habitation shows some traces of neatness and gentility, and where some humble ornaments, relics, perhaps, of happier days, have been suffered to remain, and have not found their way into the pawnshop. Such a one is at once declared an “undeserving case”; for does not his dwelling show that he is still possessed of means, and his application is at once summarily and without mercy rejected. But Nordheim knew nothing of such uncharitable charity, such inhuman humanity. The disposition there was truly charitable in the kindlier, and hence nobler, sense of the word. Poverty was looked upon as a necessary and inevitable feature of human existence, as, indeed, a part of the Divine order of the world; for had not He said in His law, “The poor shall not cease from the midst of the land”?
The unfortunates who had been selected by some mysterious dispensation of Providence to bear the hard burden of poverty were the objects of real and genuine commiseration, and every effort was made to alleviate their sad condition. And if some of them did occasionally resort to deception or petty misrepresentation in order to secure a larger benefaction than would otherwise have fallen to his share, there was no horror-stricken outcry, no show of virtuous indignation, such as our high-salaried or amateur charity experts would indulge in; but people merely shook their heads, rather pityingly than otherwise, and would say: “Poor fellow! he has little enough in this world, God knows. No wonder that he tried to get a little more.” Indeed, if the Schnorrer was really a shrewd fellow and his trick a well-devised one, he was far more apt to arouse amusement than resentment, and would actually profit by his nimble wit. This I saw well illustrated shortly after my arrival in Nordheim. One day a Schnorrer presented himself with an expression of utter woe upon his countenance before Uncle Koppel, and in heart-breaking accents informed him that he had just received news that he had become an Ovel. “Alas, woe is me,” he wailed. “My poor, dear wife in Poland is dead! What shall I do without her? Who will care for my poor, unfortunate orphans? How shall I keep the Shivah for her, as is due to her memory, I who have no home and no means?” It need hardly be stated that the sad case of the stricken widower aroused the most profound sympathy among the Jews of Nordheim. Uncle Koppel at once placed his house at the disposal of the unfortunate man in order that he might properly observe the seven days of mourning, and most of the members of the congregation offered to attend the mourning services morning and evening. Aunt Caroline looked well after his comfort, provided him with four or five square meals daily and a good bed at night. At the conclusion of the seven days a substantial purse was made up for his benefit and he departed, showering blessings upon the heads of all the Nordheim Kehillah, and vowing that he would never forget their kindness and their true spirit of brotherliness.
A few weeks later Uncle Koppel had occasion to make a trip on business to Römhild, a somewhat distant town in the grand duchy of Meiningen. As he never ate dinner when away on these trips, it was customary to keep his dinner for him, and all the household would remain up until his return. It was rather late before he returned, after nine in the evening. As soon as he had strode through the door we all noticed that something unusual had befallen him during the day, and that that something had been of an amusing nature. His face was wreathed in smiles and he was silently chuckling to himself. We all became, of course, curious to know the cause of his amusement, but none, except Aunt Caroline, ventured to ask. “For goodness’ sake, husband,” said she, “what is the matter? Let us know.” “Give me my meal first, wife,” said Uncle Koppel. “I need strength before I can tell you.” All during the meal Uncle Koppel sat with sides shaking with ill-suppressed laughter, while curiosity and impatience consumed us all. At last, his meal concluded and grace recited, Uncle Koppel began his story. “I heard something in Römhild to-day of our Schnorrer,” said he; “the one who kept Shivah in our house.” “Indeed,” we all vociferated, “what was it?” “I called first on Moses Rosenbaum,” he resumed, “in reference to some cattle that I wished to buy of him; and after we had finished our business, he said to me: ‘By the way, Koppel, there is a very sad case in town at present, and it would be a real Mitzvah for you to help us a little in relieving it.’ ‘What is it,’ said I. ‘A poor man,’ said he, ‘has suddenly received news that his wife died, and he is so destitute that he cannot support his orphans without help, or even keep Shivah. We have helped him some and he has been keeping Shivah in my house during the week.’ ‘Aha,’ said I, beginning to smell a rat, ‘this is strange. We had just such a case in Nordheim a few weeks ago. I think I shall go over and see your man.’ We went over to Rosenbaum’s house, and, sure enough, it was the same fellow. The Shivah-keeping business in Nordheim had suited him so well that he was trying it again in another place. When I saw him I said: ‘My friend, I believe I have met you before.’ He looked at me, not in the least abashed, and said: ‘Oh, yes, in Nordheim, a few weeks ago.’ ‘What do you mean by this brazen-faced fraud,’ I asked, ‘pretending to have lost your wife and swindling people into charitable gifts by pretending to keep Shivah?’ ‘Oh, my good sir,’ said he, with great pretence of earnestness, ‘it is no deceit at all. The first time it was a false report. My wife had not died. But this time she is really dead, really indeed; and if you don’t believe me you can go yourself to Pitchichow in Poland, my native town, and convince yourself. You can, indeed.’ We all laughed heartily at the fellow’s impudence, and warning him to be sure that his wife was dead before he sat Shivah for her next time, we bade him begone. He went off with great alacrity, evidently glad that he had fared no worse.”