Jewish children

by Sholem Aleichem

You will tell your mother on him? Well, try it. You want to know what will happen? I will tell you. You will go home and show your mother your torn ear. Your mother will pounce on your father. "You see how the tyrant has torn the ear of your child—your only son." Your father will take you by the hand to the synagogue, and straight over to Isshur the beadle, as if to say to him: "Here, see what you have done to my only son. You have almost torn off his ear." And Isshur will reply to my father's unspoken words: "Go in health with your wretches." You hear? Even an only son is also wretches. And what can father do? Push his hat on one side, and go home. Mother will ask him: "Well?" And he will reply: "I gave it to him, the wicked one, the Haman! What more could I do to him?"

It is not at all nice that a father should tell such a big lie. But what is one to do when one is under the yoke of a beadle?

. . . . .

One might say that the whole town is under Isshur's yoke. He does what he likes. If he does not want to heat the synagogue in the middle of winter, you may burst arguing with him. He will heed you no more than last year's snow. If Isshur wants prayers to start early in the morning, you will be too late whenever you come. If Isshur does not want you to read the portion of the Law for eighteen weeks on end, you may stare at him from today till tomorrow, or cough until you burst. He will neither see nor hear you. It is the same with your praying-shawl, or your prayer-book, or with your citron, or the willow-twigs. Isshur will bring them to you when he likes, not when you like. He says that householders are plentiful as dogs, but there is only one beadle—may no evil eye harm him! The congregation is so big, one might go mad.

And Isshur was proud and haughty. He reduced every one to the level of the earth. The most respectable householder often got it hot from him. "It is better for you not to start with me," he said. "I have no time to talk to you. There are a lot of you, and I am only one—may no evil eye harm me!" And nobody began with him. They were glad that he did not begin with them.

Naturally, no one would dream of asking Isshur what became of the money donated to the synagogue, or of the money he got for the candles, and the money thrown into the collection boxes. Nor did they ask him any other questions relating to the management of the synagogue. He was the master of the whole concern. And whom was he to give an account to? The people were glad if he left them alone, and that he did not throw the keys into their faces. "Here, keep this place going yourselves. Provide it with wood and water, candles and matches. The towels must be kept clean. A slate has to be put on the roof frequently, and the walls and ceiling have to be whitewashed. The stands have to be repaired, and the books bought. And what about the 'Chanukali' lamp? And what of the palm-branch and the citron? And where is this, and where is that?" And though every one knew that all the things he mentioned not only did not mean an outlay of money, but were, on the contrary, a source of income, yet no one dared interfere. All these belonged to the beadle. They were his means of livelihood. "The fine salary I get from you! One's head might grow hard on it. It's only enough for the water for the porridge," said Isshur. And the people were silent.

The people were silent, though they knew very well that "Reb" Isshur was saving money. They knew very well he had plenty of money. It was possible he even lent out money on interest, in secret, on good securities, of course. He had a little house of his own, and a garden, and a cow. And he drank a good glassful of brandy every day. In the winter he wore the best fur coat. His wife always wore good boots without holes. She made herself a new cloak not long ago, out of the public money. "May she suffer through it for our blood, Father in heaven!"

That's what the villagers muttered softly through their teeth, so that the beadle might not hear them. When he approached, they broke off and spoke of something else. They blinked their eyes, breathed hard, and took from the beadle a pinch of snuff with their two fingers. "Excuse me."

This "excuse me" was a nasty "excuse me." It was meant to be flattering, to convey the sense of—"Excuse me, your snuff is surely good." And, "Excuse me, give me a pinch of snuff, and go in peace."

Isshur understood the compliment, and also the hint. He knew the people loved him like sore eyes. He knew the people wished to take away his office from him as surely as they wished to live. But he heeded them as little as Haman heeds the "Purim" rattles. He had them in his fists, and he knew what to do.