Jewish children

by Sholem Aleichem

But suddenly....

Nearly always, since ever the world began, when a misfortune happens to a man—when robbers surround him in a wood, bind his hands, sharpen their knives, tell him to say his prayers, and are about to finish him off, there comes a woodman with a bell. The robbers run away, and the man lifts his hands on high and praises the Lord for his deliverance.

It was just like that with me and my nose. I don't remember whether it was at the fifth or sixth blow that the door opened, and Benny "Polkovoi" came in. The boys freed me at once, and remained standing like blocks of wood. Benny took them in hand, one by one. He caught each boy by the ear, twisted it round, and said:

"Well, now you will know what it means to meddle with a widow's boy."

From that day the boys did not touch either me or my nose. They were afraid to begin with the widow's boy whom Benny had taken under his wing, into his guardianship, under his protection.

. . . . .

"The widow's boy"—- I had no other name at "Cheder." This was because my mother was a widow. She supported herself by her own work. She had a little shop in which were, for the most part, so far as I can remember, chalk and locust-beans—the two things that sell best in Mazapevka. Chalk is wanted for white-washing the houses, and locust-beans are a luxury. They are sweet, and they are light in weight, and they are cheap. Schoolboys spend on them all the money they get for breakfast and dinner. And the shopkeepers make a good profit out of them. I could never understand why my mother was always complaining that she could hardly make enough to pay the rent and my school-fees. Why school-fees? What about the other things a human being needs, food and clothes and boots, for example? She thought of nothing but the school-fees. "When the Lord punished me," she wailed, "and took my husband from me—and such a husband!—and left me all alone, I want my son to be a scholar, at any rate." What do you say to that? Do you think she did not come frequently to the "Cheder" to find out how I was getting on? I say nothing of the prayers she took good care I should recite every morning. She was always lecturing me to be even half as good as my father—peace be unto him! And whenever she looked at me, she said I was exactly like him—may I have longer years than he! And her eyes grew moist. Her face grew curiously careworn, and had a mournful expression.

I hope he will forgive me, I mean my father, from the other world, but I could not understand what sort of a man he had been. From what my mother told of him, he was always either praying or studying. Had he never been drawn, like me, out into the open, on summer mornings, when the sun was not burning yet, but was just beginning to show in the sky, marching rapidly onwards, a fiery angel, in a fiery chariot, drawn by fiery horses, into whose brilliant, burning, guinea-gold faces it was impossible to look? I ask you what taste have the week-day prayers on such a morning? What sort of a pleasure is it to sit and read in a stuffy room, when the golden sun is burning, and the air is hot as an iron frying-pan? At such a time, you are tempted to run down the hill, to the river—the beautiful river that is covered with a green slime. A peculiar odour, as of a warm bath, comes from the distance. You want to undress and jump into the warm water. Under the trees it is cool and the mud is soft and slippery. And the curious insects that live at the bottom of the river whirl around and about before your eyes. And curious, long-legged flies slip and slide on the surface of the water. At such a time one desires to swim over to the other side—over to where the green flags grow, their yellow and white stalks shimmering in the sun. A green, fresh fern looks up at you, and you go after it, plash-plash into the water, hands down, and feet up, so that people might think you were swimming. I ask you again, what pleasure is it to sit in a little room on a summer's evening, when the great dome of the sky is dropping over the other side of the town, lighting up the spire of the church, the shingle roofs of the baths, and the big windows of the synagogue. And on the other side of the town, on the common, the goats are bleating, and the lambs are frisking, the dust rising to the heavens, the frogs croaking. There is a tearing and a shrieking and a tumult as at a regular fair. Who thinks of praying at such a time? But if you talk to my mother, she will tell you that her husband—peace be unto him!—did not succumb to temptations. He was a different sort of a man. What sort of a man he was I do not know—asking his pardon. I only know that my mother annoys me very much. She reminds me every minute that I had a father; and throws it into my teeth that she has to pay my school-fees for me. For this she asks only two things of me—that I should learn diligently, and say my prayers willingly.

. . . . .

It could not be said that the widow's boy did not learn well. He was not in any way behind his comrades. But I cannot guarantee that he said his prayers willingly. All children are alike. And he was as mischievous as any other boy. He, like the rest, was fond of running away and playing, though there is not much to be said of the play of Jewish children. They tie a paper bag to a cat's tail so that she may run through the house like mad, smashing everything in her way. They lock the women's portion of the synagogue from the outside on Friday nights, so that the women may have to be rescued. They nail the teacher's shoes to the floor, or seal his beard to the table with wax when he is asleep. But oh, how many thrashings do they get when their tricks are found out! It may be gathered that everything must have an originator, a commander, a head, a leader who shows the way.