Chapter seven and twenty. The Sick Child
All the while I was sitting in Bach’s house, the child busied himself with his picture book and paid no attention to me. Suddenly he asked, “Are you from the Land of Israel?” “Yes, my dear,” I said, “I am from the Land of Israel.” “Were you in Jerusalem too?” he asked. “I was in Jerusalem too,” I said. “Did you see my uncle Yeruham?” he asked. “No, I didn’t see him,” I said. “Why didn’t you see him?” “I just didn’t happen to see him,” I said. “Why?” “Your uncle lived in one place and I lived in another,” I said. The child looked at me in surprise, and said, “But don’t all the Jews live together in the Land of Israel?” “Yes, my dear,” I said, “all the Jews live together, but even so, is it possible to see every one? There is a distance that divides one place from another, you know, and if you live in one place you do not see the person who lives in another place.” “You don’t see?” “Certainly you don’t see; every separation separates.” “And why do I see him?” “Whom do you see, my love?” asked the child’s mother. The child laughed and said, “I see my uncle Yeruham.” “You see him?” said the mother in a fright. “Yes, Mother, I see him,” said the child.
“How do you see him — in a dream?” asked the child’s father. “In a dream, and not in a dream too,” said the child. “I always see him. Before this gentleman came in I saw my uncle Yeruham putting brown polish on his shoes.” “Brown polish?” cried Erela in surprise. “Yes, Erela,” said her brother, “brown polish he put on his shoes.” Erela took off her spectacles and shined them and asked again, “Why brown polish?” “So that they shouldn’t see the blood on them that drips from his heart.”
The child whispered to me, “Do you know my uncle was killed? An Arab killed him. Why did he kill him? He was a good uncle. Once he gave me a sugar soldier riding on a sugar horse, with a long sugar spear in his hand. The soldier was very sweet, but I didn’t eat him. I swear I didn’t eat him, though he was sweet. I only licked the horse’s hoofs a little and the spear too. And do you know my grandfather?” “Yes, I know your grandfather,” I said. “He went up to Jerusalem,” said he. Daniel stroked the child’s cheek and said, “Yes, dear, he went up to Jerusalem.”
“And does he see my uncle Yeruham?” the child asked his father. “But Uncle is dead,” said his father, “so how is it possible to see him?” “And if he is dead, don’t you see him?” asked the child. “No, my love, you don’t see him,” said his mother.
The child was silent for a while, and asked again: “Why did the Arab not die? The Arab was not a good man. After all, he killed my uncle. What is dead? Is everyone you don’t see dead?” Said his mother, “Some of them are dead and some of them are alive.” “And how do we know who is alive and who is dead?” asked the child.
His mother sighed and said, “Don’t mention the dead, my love.” “Why?” “Perhaps they will show themselves to you in a dream.” “If you see them will that mean they are alive, Mother? And is Yeruham Freeman dead too?” “Why?” “Because I don’t see him.” “Of course you don’t see him,” said his mother. “He has stopped coming here.” “Why doesn’t he come here?” His mother sighed and said, “Because he likes it better somewhere else.” “What is somewhere else?” “A place that isn’t here is somewhere else.” “Am I not here either?” “No, my love, no, my darling,” said the mother, “you are here, you are here.” “Why am I here and not somewhere else?” “Because, my love, you are a little weak,” said the mother, “and you can’t walk with your feet.” “Now I know.” “What do you know, my love?” “Why all the places come to me.”
“What do you mean, all the places come to you?” Erela asked her brother. “They shift themselves and come to me,” he replied. “And sometimes I go to them. It’s not with my feet I go, I go to them with my self. Sometimes I fall suddenly from a high mountain and roll over and over down to the bottom, and suddenly I find myself standing in a brook, and there are so many fish swimming in the water, and they have no heads — only soldiers’ caps. Mother, when I’m big you’ll make me a soldier’s knapsack and I’ll go to war. Daddy, has every soldier got a wooden leg?”
The child’s mother sighed and said, “Close your eyes, my love, the time has come to sleep.” “I’m afraid of sleeping,” said the child. “Don’t be afraid, my love, say the ‘Hear, O Israel.’ Your hands are clean, aren’t they? So say: ‘Hear, O Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is One.’ And now say good night.” “Good night to all the good people.” His mother kissed him and said, “Good night, my love.”
Chapter eight and twenty. A New Face
New faces are to be seen in the Beit Midrash. Every day I come across a certain old man dressed in rags. He comes in with me and goes out with me. He sits silent, speaking with no man. It is not my way to ask: Who are you? When I shall need to know, it will be made known to me.
Except on the day I came here, and a second time when the talk turned to the later generations, I had heard no one mention the divorcee and her hotel. The people I come across have nothing to do with a hotel of that type; they do not mention it even in condemnation. But now everyone is talking about it and about the divorcee. And they also tell a story about a certain girl who came across an old man in the market. Said he to her, “Perhaps you know if So-and-so, daughter of So-and-so, still lives here?” Said she to him, “She is my mother.” Said he to her, “If that is your mother, I am your father.” Immediately a rumor spread in the town that the divorcee’s ex-husband had come back.
That ex-husband, Reb Hayim is his name, was a descendant of great men, a brilliant scholar and qualified for the rabbinate. I remember that when he came to live in our town everyone was talking about him and his father-in-law; about him because of his learning, and about his father-in-law in envy.
This father-in-law was rich in money and poor in wisdom. He had a large dry goods store in the center of the town and a permanent seat in the old Beit Midrash. When his daughter reached marriageable age he heard that there was a certain rabbi in a little town near Szibucz who had a son, a great scholar. So he took all his money in notes and put it in a leather wallet, went to the rabbi, and put it down in front of him, saying, “Rabbi, all this is stored away for the husband of my only daughter, apart from property and chattels. Are you willing, Rabbi, to give me your son for my daughter?” The rabbi saw all that money and agreed to the match. The rich man kept his promise and even more. He bought a new house, with fine furniture and books, in which he set down his son-in-law, engaged an attendant to attend him, hired him a seat at the honorable eastern end of the old Beit Midrash, maintained him and his house generously, and even gave presents to his father the rabbi.