One day Daniel Bach came up to me. He hunched over his wooden leg and said, “You should do as I did. If you have lost the key, get another key made.”
That was a simple piece of advice Bach gave me, a solution that no one else had offered before he came along. And Daniel Bach went on, “I will send you the locksmith and he will make you a new key.”
Those were hard days I spent waiting for the locksmith. Whenever anyone I did not know came into the hotel, I jumped up from my seat and ran to meet him, and when I saw that this was not the locksmith, I felt as if he had come to mock me.
If I did not know where the locksmith lived, I knew Bach’s house. After all, he lived just next door; I could have gone to him to ask about the locksmith. But the reason I did not go was that I was still bothered by the Beit Midrash, for I used to circle around and examine it to see if I could find a breach through which I could enter. But the old Beit Midrash stood whole on every side, and there was no breach in it. Our fathers, when they built houses for the Torah, took great care that they should be whole on every side.
Again I thought about the books that were left in our old Beit Midrash. Only a few out of many were left there, and so long as the key was in my possession I used to go in and study them, but now that the key was lost and I could not go in, who would study them?
Chapter sixteen. At the Graves of My Fathers
One day I was sitting at breakfast when an old woman came in, bent and wrapped up like my grandmother, may she rest in peace, at the celebration of the New Moon — only my grandmother’s clothes were handsome and this one’s were in rags. She came up to me, kissed my shoulder and my knee, and burst into tears.
“Who are you and why are you weeping?” I asked her. “How should I not cry,” she replied, “when that child died and did not live to see her son grown up.” “Who was that child?” said I. “Why, isn’t it your mother, sir?” she replied. “I was her governess. Such a good heart as she had you won’t find anywhere in the world.” I said to her, “Are you the Kaiserin?” She nodded her head and smiled.
I asked her to forgive me for calling her by this derogatory nickname (for there was a certain family of poor folk in our town who were quarrelsome and arrogant, and they used to be called the Kaisers, because they gave themselves airs and graces). “Why should I be offended?” asked she. “Everyone calls me the Kaiserin and I am not ashamed. But tell me yourself, sir, am I really a Kaiserin? Woe is me, may all the enemies of Israel have a life like mine. Now that the Kaiser is no longer Kaiser, what does it matter?” “Are you not Elimelech’s mother?” I asked. “I am the mother of Elimelech Kaiser, who left me and went away,” she replied. “Wouldn’t it have been better if he’d taken a knife and cut my throat? Tell me yourself, where’s the justice and where’s the conscience? Forty years of trouble I had with him, and in the end he picked himself up and went off. All the same, it’s a consolation to me that the Creator let me live to see your mother’s son. I remember her when she stroked my cheeks with her little hands, her velvety hands; may I be so sure of a happy life as I’m sure I felt her stroking my cheeks. Even when she grew up she was not ashamed of me. Before every festival she used to take me into the big room in her house, open the clothes cupboard, and say, ‘Freide, take a dress, take a pair of shoes.’ And when I put on the dress a silver coin would fall out of it.”
Said I, “Freide, if I had a dress I would give it to you; since I haven’t a dress, I will give you a silver coin.” “Who needs money? Who needs money?” said Freide. “How many rich men we had in our town, and what happened to them? They lost their money and now they are poor. D’you think it’s money I need? To buy crackers with perhaps, when I haven’t the teeth to chew them? It’s enough that I’ve lived to see your mother’s son. What more do I need?” And again she kissed me on the knee and the shoulder and burst into tears.
“Don’t cry, Freide,” I said to her. “Many birds have grown their wings and flown away, and in the end come back to their nests.” “Not a bit of it!” said Freide. “When my son comes back I’ll be lying in the ground, my eyes covered with broken bits of pottery, and I won’t see him.” “Man’s destiny is death,” said I, “and there is no expedient against death.” Freide replied, “If only my son would close my eyes I would smile. But strange men will close my eyes, and when strange men close a dead woman’s eyes, she feels pain in them, for the strange man’s hand comes down without mercy, and when my son comes back and stands over my grave I won’t see him, for I shall feel pain in my eyes. And if I don’t see well when I’m alive — how much worse will I see after my death, after my eyes have been covered without mercy.”
“But surely you have other sons besides Elimelech,” I said. “Four sons I had besides Elimelech,” replied Freide, “and they were all killed — three in the war and one in the pogroms. What shall I tell you, my chick, I am like a blown-up bladder after someone has stuck a knife in it and let out the air. And now d’you want to know the end of my daughters? Oh, my pure and lovely daughters, as beautiful as kings’ and emperors’ daughters — their end was harder than their brothers, for their brothers died by the sword, while they died in hunger and grief. The blessed, merciful God has been crueler to me than to all the women of my town: He has killed my sons and daughters. And you say: Don’t weep, Freide. And do you think I want to weep? My eyes weep by themselves, they fill with tears and weep. Even at a time when I should be glad, for I see you, my chick; even then my eyes weep. I remember you as a child sucking at the breast, when you used to play on your mother’s heart, like a butterfly on a field of lilies. And I used to say to you and your mother, may she rest in peace: ‘This little one will be great some day.’ And here my prophecy has come true, and I should be glad. But what do my eyes do? They go on weeping, for it is the way of eyes to weep; they cannot control themselves, but do the bidding of the heart; and the heart, my darling, the heart is bitter.” And Freide lowered her eyes and wiped them with the hem of her coat, and wept again. And once she was weeping again she did not stop.
My hostess brought Freide a glass of tea to refresh her, and sat down and told me Freide’s story. On the day when Freide rose after the mourning period for the two sons whose blood was shed at the same time, news came that another son had been killed in the war. So she and her two daughters sat down and mourned for another seven days. And where were her two remaining sons? One had been buried under a collapsing hill during the war, but was saved, and then was killed in the pogroms; and Elimelech was lying wounded in a hospital. One day, during the seven days mourning, the older daughter said to the younger one, “Our brothers are dead in battle, and we are dying of hunger. Let us go to the village; perhaps we’ll find something to eat there, before we go crazy with hunger.” So they dressed themselves and went out. On the way they met a soldier. “Where are you going, girls?” he asked. “To look for bread,” they said. “I haven’t any bread,” said he, “but if you want raisins I’ll give you as much as you want.” And he led them to a graveyard, where he opened up a hole and took out a sack of raisins. “Take the sack and everything in it,” he said, “and pray for mercy for the soul of a sinner.” So they took the sack, thanked him warmly, and ran toward the town to bring it to their mother. They had not gone far before the soldier came back after them and said, “Ungrateful girls! Not even a single kiss you’ve given me.” Then they realized what he wanted, so they threw down the sack and started to run away. At that moment a troop of soldiers passed by. When the soldier saw them he ran off in fear, for he was a deserter. The soldiers saw the sack and began cursing and swearing. “The whole world is hungry,” they cried, “and these Jews have almonds and raisins to eat.” In the end, they left the raisins and started on the girls. Before a month was out the woman had buried her two daughters, one after the other.