When, as a child, I made my first studies of the world around me, one of the objects which chiefly attracted my childish gaze was a picture which hung on the wall of the parlor of my home. It was a crude and inartistic picture, awkward in delineation and barbarous in color; but it was full of interest to me, for it spoke to me of a place far across the sea, a place which oft-told but never wearisome tales had surrounded with a bright halo of romance, and which my eager imagination had glorified into a veritable fairyland; it was a picture of a village in that Germany which seemed so far away and so unreal, my mother’s native place, Nordheim vor der Rhön. These sentiments were not entirely, nor even mainly, due to the picture itself, but to the descriptions with which mother ע״ה used to accompany it; for mother dear, God rest her soul, among her other good qualities, had a most vivid and emphatic way of impressing her ideas upon her auditors. She was not only in loving tenderness and devotion the ideal of a Jewish parent, but a most charming and entertaining raconteuse, full to the brim of reminiscences of her youth, an animated chronicle of persons and events, and capable of describing both the humorous and the pathetic in an inimitably touching and taking manner. In addition to all this she was a living refutation of the favorite anti-Semitic calumny, that Jews have no sentiment of patriotism. She cherished in her heart the warmest and most unquenchable love for her native land, while her attachment to the memory of her birthplace, its ties and its traditions, approached the dignity and sincerity of a religion. No wonder that from such a stirring and enthusiastic source I imbibed the liveliest interest in all that concerned Nordheim before the Rhön, its inhabitants and its welfare. I would stand for hours at a time before that crude little picture on our parlor wall, gazing at the array of houses with startlingly red roofs and dazzlingly white walls, at the fields of brilliant green and the trees with trunks as straight as ramrods and mathematically elliptical foliage, and at the tin-soldier-like gendarme whom the rustic artist, who must have inclined either to realism or militarism (I could never determine which) had depicted marching, with martial air and projecting bayonet, along the country highway.
But I saw none of these things. My imagination gazed beyond these externals and saw the quaint and touching figures of those who had their abode in this secluded retreat, and I found myself wondering whether it would ever be my privilege to see the spot where mother’s cradle had stood, and to sojourn there where life flowed on in such pure and peaceful and virtuous channels, far away from the crush and the turmoil, the evil and the anguish of the great world, where the peasants were simple, honest folk and the Jews all faithful to their ancestral religion, where old age was venerated and childhood obedient and respectful, where such things as violating the Sabbath and eating Trefoth were unknown.
My opportunity came in my twenty-first year. Circumstances, the nature of which need not be dilated upon here, made it my privilege to spend several years in Europe in study. But while I awaited, in joyous anticipation, the day when I should enter upon my course at the North German University and Seminary, at which I was to prepare for my life’s vocation, it was with an absorbing interest, I might almost say with a passionate longing, that I looked forward to actually seeing Nordheim, and actually knowing the persons and conditions of which I had heard and dreamt so much. Never shall I forget the day when, having crossed the stormy Atlantic and travelled by train a day and a night southward from Hamburg, I alighted at Mellrichstadt, the railroad station nearest to Nordheim—four English miles—and saw upon the platform, waiting for me, a pleasant-faced, dark-complexioned youth, whom I had never seen before, and yet whom I at once recognized, for his features appeared in more than one counterfeit presentment in a well-worn family album, over which I had often pored more than three thousand miles away. It was Cousin Solomon, and he had come to the station, having been notified by letter of my prospective arrival, to meet his American relative, and to conduct him to Nordheim and the bosom of his family. Then and there I recognized the reality and the value of sentiment. Here were two persons, born in different and widely separated lands, speaking different mother tongues and citizens of different nations, who had never seen each other before; and yet so powerful were the ties of kinship and the remembrance of common blood and a common origin, that they sufficed to bridge over all that yawning gap of separation and to bring heart to heart and lip to lip in a union of truest love and affection. Our recognition was mutual and instantaneous. We pronounced each other’s names, fell upon each other’s necks, and a moment later were chatting as intimately as though we had met daily during all our previous lives. Three years long I spent my summer vacations at Nordheim, and I came to know and to love it and the surrounding region so well that when the hour of final parting came, it cost my heart more than one pang and drew more tears from my eyes than I should like to confess. What a charming ideal life of sentiment and pleasure we led there, Cousin Solomon and I. We seemed to be hovering in a dream world, far too sweet and beautiful to be real. We were at once students on a holiday, friends of nature, children without a shade of care or anxiety, and sincere, devout worshippers at the shrine of Israel’s God. We climbed together the steep and lofty mountains which abound in that region, and when we had reached the summit we gazed with delight at the dazzling panorama spread out before us and inhaled deep draughts of the pure, cool, health-giving air. We wandered for hours through the dense pine forests or undertook long trips on foot to distant villages or spots that were interesting for some historical or other reason. Once we made a long trip, in company with Aunt Caroline, to the village of Burghauen, on the other side of the Rhön Mountains, to visit some relatives there. We travelled in a carriage belonging to the Duke of Weimar. We had hired it from the duke’s manager, who was not above turning an honest penny with his master’s property when occasion offered. The carriage bore the ducal escutcheon, and our coachman and footman wore the duke’s livery; and as we rolled through the various villages in grand style, the peasants and their wives and children all came out and made deep and reverent obeisance. I was quite astounded, but Aunt Caroline and Cousin Solomon were so amused that they could hardly keep straight faces. Both they and I bowed to the right and to the left and answered the salutations right royally, at which the people seemed highly gratified.
“What is the reason of all this,” said I (to whom this unexpected enthusiasm was extremely puzzling) to Solomon. “Do they make so much fuss about everybody?” “Why, no!” said Solomon, laughing heartily. “They recognize the carriage and the lackeys, and they take us for members of the ducal family. They think mamma is the duchess, and you and me they take for the young dukes.”
But, altogether, everybody was extremely friendly in Nordheim and vicinity, Jew or Gentile, peasant, merchant or teacher, acquaintance or stranger, without exception. It was “gruesse Gott,” and “guten Morgen,” and “guten Tag,” and “lebe wohl,” and “auf Wiedersehen,” and “schlafe wohl,” and “angenehme Ruhe,” and any number of other kindly and sympathetic phrases, and all said with such evident sincerity and good intentions as went quite through one and left one feeling warm and charitable and kindly disposed toward humanity in general. And then the eating, so abundant in quantity, so excellent, and more than satisfying in quality. At first Aunt Caroline wanted to feed me all the time. Six or seven times a day she would spread the table and invite me to partake until I protested, and by dint of hard pleading induced her to reduce the number of meals to four, with an occasional extra bite in between. It makes my mouth water yet to think of the “gefüllte Flanken,” and the “gruenkern Suppe,” and the “eingelegte Gänsebrüst,” and the “Zwiebeltätcher,” and the “gesetzte Bohnen,” and the “Shabboskugel,” and the thousand and one other delicacies with which dear Aunt Caroline used to regale us, and to which healthy appetites and youth gave a zest compared with which ambrosia must have been poor. And, oh, the beer! Such magnificent stuff! So different from the wretched pretence which we call by that name in America. I quite lost all my temperance principles in Nordheim and have never recovered them since.
But along with this joyous physical life there went a spiritual life no less joyous and satisfying. We were Jews there in Nordheim. The Sabbath was a guest whose arrival was looked forward to with the most eager anticipation, and which seemed to cast a magic, sacred glamour over all the Jewish houses in the village, transforming the prosaic, work-a-day appearance of persons and things into an aspect of dignity and holiness. All day long on Fridays until about an hour before nightfall, a tremendous bustle of preparation was going on. Such cleaning and scrubbing and polishing, such baking and boiling and brewing! It seemed as though every house was being turned topsy-turvy. On that day, too, the men folks came home several hours sooner than usual, and then there was added the turmoil of the taking of baths and the polishing of shoes, and the taking out of clean shirts and Sabbath suits, and dressing and getting ready. But about an hour before nightfall all the noise and clamor and turmoil ceased and Sabbath stillness began to settle over the village. The quaint old seven-cornered Sabbath lamps were taken out and the Jewish housewives lit them, pronouncing at the same time the prescribed benediction. How charming and yet impressive Aunt Caroline looked as she stood with uplifted hands and reverential mien before the sacred lamp, the Sabbath cap of dainty lace and ribbons surmounting her refined and regular features of purest Hebrew type, while from her lips issued in the holy tongue the words of the benediction, “Blessed art Thou, O Lord, our God, King of the universe, who hast sanctified us with Thy commandments and bidden us light the Sabbath lamp.”
A half-hour later all were assembled in the little synagogue, which was filled to the very last seat, for the Nordheim synagogue was not built on the American plan. In our progressive country we build great and imposing synagogues and temples for the benefit, not of the people who regularly attend—for them a very small edifice would suffice—but of those who pay the Almighty the honor of a visit only once or twice a year. But the Nordheim synagogue had accommodations only for its regular members and attendants, and these were expected to be in their places on every occasion of public services. Sometimes somebody would be missing at service, and then it used to amuse me to notice with what anxious solicitude inquiry would be made of his family as to the cause of his absence. It appeared to be taken for granted that only illness or some other equally grave reason could induce any one to be absent from synagogue at time of worship. I could not refrain from smiling when I thought how pointless such solicitude would be in America, where, on the contrary, the question addressed to any average Jew, should he present himself in the synagogue on any but two or three days of the year, would be, “What brings you to Shool to-day?”
The services in the synagogue at Nordheim were intensely interesting to me, not, indeed, because of the artistic rendition of the ritual or the technical excellence of the singing, but because of the spirit of devotion and earnestness by which they were pervaded. I have listened to numbers of cantors who certainly rank higher in their profession than the humble individual who acted in the capacity of village teacher, Chazan, and Shochet in Nordheim, and the musical performances of trained and paid choirs are undeniably superior to the untutored though vociferous efforts of a rustic congregation. But all these have something perfunctory and mechanical about their efforts which deprive them of real charm and of power to touch and move the spirit. One remains coldly critical in listening to them, and judges them solely from the standpoint of professional ability and artistic merit. Not so in Nordheim. There was an all-pervading sense of earnestness and reality in the worship which made one forget the how of the prayers and hymns and think only of the what. Faith, deep and firm as the rocks, ingrained into the very tissue and life of the spirit, looked forth from those simple, earnest faces, shone forth from those sincere and expressive eyes. This spirit gave the familiar ritual an entirely new vividness and impressiveness. The worshippers seemed to be speaking directly to their heavenly Father, and when, at the close of the Lecho Dodi, the hymn of welcome to the Sabbath, all rose and faced the entrance, I half expected to see Queen Sabbath herself, clad in bridal robes of celestial purity, enter through the portals of that humble house of God.
The prayers concluded, the worshippers greeted each other with hearty “Good Shabbos” salutation and wended their homeward way. The scenes in the homes were in some respects even more impressive than in the synagogue. Uncle Koppel’s house particularly was resplendent with a blaze of glory. The dining-room, which also served as parlor and best room, was brilliantly lighted, and in the midst of the effulgence shone, with especial radiance, the Sabbath lamp. The table was covered with a linen cloth of snowy whiteness and laden with the finest porcelain, glass, and silver that the household could boast, while at the head of the table, opposite the seat sacred to the master of the house, stood the two Sabbath loaves covered with a beautifully embroidered satin cover; and at their side the silver Kiddush-beaker and the decanter, from which the wine of blessing was to be drawn. Before Kiddush Uncle Koppel “marched” with the youngest of the children, and presented a picturesque sight indeed as he paraded up and down the room, carrying the infant of the family upon his right arm and leading the next youngest by his left hand, chanting meanwhile the hymn of welcome to the Sabbath angels. Then came the solemn benediction when the children all presented themselves with bowed heads before their parents, and were blessed by them in the words pronounced by Aaron of old over the tribes of Israel, with an added invocation in the case of sons that the Lord might make them like Ephraim and Manasseh, and of daughters that they might become like Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel, and Leah. Then came Kiddush, and the formal washing of hands and breaking of bread, and then the Sabbath meal.
Oh, the pleasure of that Sabbath meal! Everybody had a magnificent appetite on Friday evening; which was really no wonder, seeing that every one had worked and hurried all day in preparation for the holy evening; and that, in accordance with the religious precept, no one had eaten any substantial meal all day in order that he should be able to do justice to the first meal of the Sabbath. The dishes were various and all excellent, for they were seasoned with that finest of spices—the Sabbath—which gave them a flavor all their own, and which the most famous chefs of European or American hotels would strive in vain to rival; but the pièce de resistance was undoubtedly the fish. Trout of the finest quality, speckled beauties, which had only been drawn a few hours before from the icy waters of some one of the mountain streams of the Rhön gebirge, they made their appearance at the table cold, from a sojourn of several hours in the rock-hewn cellar, which served the purpose of our modern refrigerators, and with a sweet-and-sour sauce of the consistency of jelly. They were consumed with an avidity which boded ill for their speckled confrères of the mountain streams and shady pools. After the meal and the formal pronouncing of grace, in which all joined with a volume of sound which attracted the attention of the village boys in the street outside, each one followed his or her own sweet will. Some conversed, some read devotional books, some dozed until the flickering of the lights betokened their approaching extinction and warned all that the hour of retiring had arrived. Then with pleasant “good-night” wishes, each sought the shelter of his or her couch.