“Aaron is asleep,” I said to Leibtche, “perhaps you will stop until he wakes up?” “Let him sleep, let him slumber,” said Leibtche. “I don’t need him, for he has already heard most of the poems, and I was not thinking of him, but of you, my dear sir, that you should hear them and set your mind to translating them into Hebrew. I am not strong in Hebrew, for in my youth it was the German language that the world thought important, so I became expert in German and am not in the habit of writing Hebrew, especially poetry, for the poet must be well versed in grammar. At first I thought of writing the poems in Hebrew, but I did not manage to write more than the first two verses. Be so good, my dear sir, as to wait a few moments until I find them and show you them.”
Schutzling awoke and said, “And if thou canst not deliver thy friend, deliver thyself.” Then he closed his eyes and dozed off again. “You see, my dear sir,” said Leibtche, “the power of poetry. Even in his sleep it won’t let his memory go. How many years Mr. Schutzling has not held Schiller’s poems in his hand, yet he remembers them even in his sleep. I have found the rhymes I spoke of, my dear sir. With your permission, my dear sir, do please devote your attention to them.” Leibtche did not wait for me to give my attention to his rhymes, but started reading them:
“In the beginning He created heaven and earth,
And darkness burst there — oh, how it burst!
Both Tohu and Bohu was the world before its birth,
And the spirit of God on the waters showed its worth.”
Schutzling, who was tired of feigning sleep, got up and stretched himself. “It’s a pity Moses our Teacher didn’t write the Torah in German and put it into rhyme,” he said. “What an idea, Mr. Schutzling!” said Leibtche. “Don’t you know that in Moses’ time the German language did not even exist?” “Well then,” said Schutzling, “I am sorry it exists today.” “What an idea, my dear sir,” said Leibtche. “Wasn’t it in German that Schiller wrote his sublime poems, which will endure to all eternity, an eternal memorial to human wisdom?” But Schutzling insisted. He repeated what he had said before, and continued, “If Moses had written the Torah in German and in rhymes, Leibtche would not have had to take all this trouble.” “On the contrary,” said Leibtche, “it is a very great pleasure.” Schutzling embraced him with all his might and said, “But it isn’t a pleasure for us.” Leibtche looked at him in surprise and asked, “How can that be, Mr. Schutzling? How can a cultured man like yourself say such a thing?” Said Schutzling, “Show me your copybooks, Leibtche.” Leibtche held out his copybooks and stood by him. “Fine handwriting,” said Schutzling, “fine handwriting. Go on writing, Leibtche, go on writing, it’ll improve your handwriting.”
Genendel came back to set the table. While she was arranging the dishes, she asked me, “What do you say to Leibtche’s work? You’re a bit of a scribbler too, aren’t you?” Leibtche replied, “If even I, a stooped and humble man, more worm than man, can feel a taste sweeter than honey in my poetry, how much more must you, my dear sir.” When we sat down to eat, Leibtche wanted to go away, because he had already eaten, and besides, he wanted to start immediately on Exodus. But Genendel rebuked him and said, “Wash your hands and come to the table; your rhymes won’t run away.” So Leibtche sat down and ate, looking at me like a man whose heart is melancholy, for he sees a cultured man wasting his time eating and drinking when he could be listening to words of poetry.
That day I was entirely at Schutzling’s disposal. After we had eaten and parted from Leibtche Bodenhaus, we went out for a walk. We walked and we talked until our feet were tired and our tongues were numb. Finally we stopped to rest close by Yeruham Freeman, who was busy at the time repairing a small road.
Yeruham had no respect for Schutzling and Schutzling had no liking for Yeruham, but when he came to Szibucz and met Yeruham he used to speak to him, for Schutzling is a man of words and chatter and loves anyone who lends an ear to his talk. In the course of their talk Yeruham asked Schutzling, “How do you picture the generations to come?” “There is an example already pictured and extant,” replied Schutzling. “They will be one-third like Daniel Bach and one-third like Rubberovitch and one-third like Ignatz. If a trace of humanity remains in the world, they will make themselves wooden legs and rubber hands, and they will have noses like Ignatz.”
Ignatz happened to pass by at the moment. When he saw Schutzling, he recoiled and retreated. Schutzling called out to him and said, “My dear sir, come and I will give you pieniadze.” Ignatz began to talk in his nasal way and said, “It’s not my fault, sir.” “It is your fault, my dear sir,” said Schutzling, “but I bear you no grudge, and you don’t need to apologize.” Still Ignatz repeated in his nasal way, “It’s not my fault at all. It’s not my fault at all.” “What are you droning about, my dear sir,” said Schutzling. “You have a perfect right to be at fault. Take a copper and be off with you; someone may pass in the meantime and you will lose pieniadze.”
When Ignatz had gone off, I asked Schutzling, “What is the meaning of this dialogue?” “It’s a story not worth mentioning,” replied Schutzling, “but since you want to hear it, I will tell you.” This is what happened. During the war Schutzling’s little daughter fell ill and his wife went to look for a doctor. Ignatz came across her, and he took off her shoes and kept them, for at that time shoes were a valuable commodity in the market, since there was no leather to make them with. So how did that woman get back home in the snow on a stormy night? In fact she did not get back, because she was not accustomed to walking barefoot. She waddled along like a hen until they found her lying in the snow and brought her to the hospital. “There’s something else to add to the picture of the generations to come,” said Schutzling. “In the future, all creatures will hobble with their artificial legs and gesticulate with their rubber hands and cry through their noses: ‘Pieniadze, pieniadze,’”
On Monday morning Schutzling came to my hotel again to say goodbye before he left. But, having parted with him the night before, I left the hotel before he came and went to the Beit Midrash.
Chapter six and fifty. Much Idleness
On my way, a certain young man buttonholed me and started to harangue me at great length, until half the day had gone and it was time for lunch. There is no end to the things that young man said, but what he told me I have forgotten and what he did not tell I do not remember.
This young fellow knows as much about the Land of Israel as Pinhas Aryeh, the rabbi’s son, does about the newspapers. The things he knows are of no consequence, but his voice makes them sound very important. Besides, he knows most of the great men of the Land face to face, for if he has never been there, he has come across them abroad at congresses and conferences. (Since the day Jerusalem was destroyed and we were exiled from our Land, exile follows at a man’s heels; and even if he has the privilege of living in the Land his feet lead him abroad, for the Land of Israel is, as it were, the heart and all the other lands are the feet. When a man’s heart is good, it moves his feet, and when his heart is not good, his feet move him.)
I look at my companion. His carriage is upright, his face is full and his lips thick, his shoulders are broad and his limbs brawny. I feel doubly happy to see him: first, that even in Szibucz there should be tall, strong men, and second, that he is a Zionist, and will give his strength to the Land of Israel. So I say to him, “May you devote our strength to the Land of Israel!” and he receives my remark with a friendly look.