Jewish children

by Sholem Aleichem

Let governors change. Let ministers write circulars. What concern is it of Nachman Veribivker of Veribivka?

Nachman lived comfortably. That is, not as comfortably as his grandfather Arya had lived. Those were different times. One might almost say that the whole of Veribivka belonged to Arya. He had the inn, the store, a mill, a granary. He made money with spoons and plates, as they say. But, that was long ago. Today, all these things are gone. No more inn; no more store; no more granary. The question is why, in that case, does Nachman live in the village? Where then should he live? In the earth? Just let him sell his house, and he will be Nachman Veribivker no more. He will be a dependent, a stranger. As it is, he has at least a corner of his own, a house to live in, and a garden. His wife and daughters cultivate the garden. And if the Lord helps them, they have greens for the summer, and potatoes for the whole winter, until long after the Passover. But, one cannot live on potatoes alone. It is said that one wants bread with potatoes. And when there's no bread, a Jew takes his stick, and goes through the village in search of business. He never comes home empty-handed. What the Lord destines, he buys—some old iron, a bundle of rags, an old sack, or else a hide. The hide is stretched and dried, and is taken to the town, to Abraham-Elijah the tanner. And on all these one either earns or loses money.

Abraham-Elijah the tanner, a man with a bluish nose and fingers as black as ink, laughs at Nachman, because he is so coarsened through living with Gentiles that he even speaks like them.

. . . . .

Yes, coarsened. Nachman feels it himself. He grows coarser each year. Oh, if his grandfather Reb Arya—peace be unto him!—could see his grandson. He had been a practical man, but had also been a scholar. He knew whole passages of the Psalms and the prayers off by heart. The Jews of those times! And what does he, Nachman, know? He can only just say his prayers. It's well he knows that much. His children will know even less. When he looks at his children, how they grow to the ceiling, broad and tall like himself, and can neither read nor write, his heart grows heavy. More than all, his heart aches for his youngest child, who is called Feitel, after his father. He was a clever child, this Feitel. He was smaller in build, more refined, more Jewish than the others. And he had brains. He was shown the Hebrew alphabet once, in a prayer-book, and he never again confused one letter with the other. Such a fine child to grow up in a village amongst calves and pigs! He plays with Kuratchka's son, Fedoka. He rides on the one stick with him. They both chase the one cat. They both dig the same hole. They do together everything children can do. Nachman is sorry to see his child playing with the Gentile child. It withers him, as if he were a tree that had been stricken by lightning.

. . . . .

Fedoka is a smart little boy. He has a pleasant face and a dimpled chin, and flaxen hair. He loves Feitel, and Feitel does not dislike him. All the winter each child slept on his father's stove. They went to the window and longed for one another. They seldom met. But now the long angry winter is over. The black earth throws off her cold white mantle. The sun shines; and the wind blows. A little blade of grass peeps out. At the foot of the hill the little river murmurs. The calf inhales the soft air through distended nostrils. The cock closes one eye, and is lost in meditation. Everything around and about has come to life again. Everything rejoices. It is the Passover eve. Neither Feitel nor Fedoka can be kept indoors. They rush out into God's world which has opened up for them both. They take each other's hands, and fly down the hill that smiles at them—"Come here, children!" They leap towards the sun that greets them and calls them: "Come, children!" When they are tired of running, they sit down on God's earth that knows no Jew and no Gentile, but whispers invitingly: "Children, come to me, to me."

. . . . .

They have much to tell each other, not having met throughout the whole winter. Feitel boasts that he knows the whole Hebrew alphabet. Fedoka boasts that he has a whip. Feitel boasts that it is the eve of Passover. They have "matzos" for the whole festival and wine. "Do you remember, Fedoka, I gave you a 'matzo' last year?" "'Matzo,'" repeats Fedoka. A smile overspreads his pleasant face. It seems he remembers the taste of the "matzo." "Would you like to have some 'matzo' now, fresh 'matzo'?" Is it necessary to ask such a question? "Then come with me," says Feitel, pointing up the hill which smiled to them invitingly. They climbed the hill. They gazed at the warm sun through their fingers. They threw themselves on the damp earth which smelled so fresh. Feitel drew out from under his blouse a whole fresh, white "matzo," covered with holes on both sides. Fedoka licked his fingers in advance. Feitel broke the "matzo" in halves, and gave one half to his friend. "What do you say to the 'matzo,' Fedoka?" What could Fedoka say when his mouth was stuffed with "matzo" that crackled between his teeth, and melted under his tongue like snow? One minute, and there was no more "matzo." "All gone?" Fedoka threw his grey eyes at Feitel's blouse as a cat looks at butter. "Want more?" asked Feitel, looking at Fedoka through his sharp black eyes. What a question! "Then wait a while," said Feitel. "Next year you'll get more." They both laughed at the joke. And without a word, as if they had already arranged it, they threw themselves on the ground, and rolled down the hill like balls, quickly, quickly downwards.

. . . . .