The Jews of Barnow: Stories

by Karl Emil Franzos

The renown of the rabbi was at stake, and with it the profits of his calling. He adopted another expedient.

"God is pleased," he said, "by an increase of His faithful people. Let each community choose a couple from its number, and marry them in the burial-ground—as a sacrifice to the angry God."

This new remedy had different consequences. In many places, the assemblage of crowds of people in the graveyards, in order to be present at the marriage ceremonies, helped to spread the plague. In other places, however, the insane remedy was harmless, as the "Great Death" was already passing away, and was soon to become extinct.

This means of propitiation was not soon forgotten; and in the year 1848, when, along with freedom, poverty came, bringing the "Great Death" in its train across the Eastern steppes, the panic-stricken people resorted to it again. These appalling marriages were solemnized everywhere.

One took place in Barnow. The unfortunate couple who were chosen—without any wish of their own, but by the will of the tyrants—to be endowed with a marriage-portion of misery, and to be made man and wife among the freshly dug graves, were Nathan Goldstein, the gravedigger, and Miriam Roth, a friendless orphan, and maid-servant in the house of the warden of the community. They saw each other for the first time when they plighted their troth under the open sky.

The couple, who were thus suddenly and horribly set apart to atone for the sins of the congregation, were resigned, and even happy. None knew better than these poor dependants how to appreciate the blessings of a home.

Miriam and Nathan were happy in their married life, and two children were born to them. Their first great grief was the loss of both of their children, who fell ill, and died within a few days of each other in the year 1859. God, however, repaired the loss, for in the spring of the following year, Miriam knew she was again to be a mother.

That summer, the destroying-angel once more came from the East, and brought a fearful scourge upon the neglected Jewish villages of the great Podolian plain.

Barnow was spared. One victim alone was taken—Nathan the gravedigger. The widow's grief knew no bounds, and she was left in an utterly helpless condition. The community, on the other hand, rejoiced at their happy escape from the plague, which died out altogether. They sent the good news, with grateful thanks and presents, to Sadagóra, where the son of the late wonder-working rabbi had succeeded to his father's office. The rabbi accepted the gifts, but declined the thanks; and when the deputation informed him of the one death that had taken place, he said: "God was well pleased with you when He withdrew the plague eleven years ago, after you had made a sacrifice to Him; but the people you chose to dedicate to Him did not please Him, so their children died. Now the man has died as a sin-offering for you all. If the woman has another child, it also will only live to be a sin-offering."

So spoke the rabbi, for the gravedigger's widow could give him no present. The men returned home and reported what he had said.