My mother gives me the news that I have a job. Not, God forbid, with a tradesman — her enemies, she says, will not live to see Peysi the cantor’s son become a tradesman. My job, she says, is an easy, good-paying job. By day I will still go to school, but at night I will sleep at old man Luria’s. He is a very rich man, she says, but also very sick. He is well enough to eat and drink, but he can’t sleep at night. His eyes never shut. His children are afraid to leave him alone at night. They want someone to be with him, but leaving him with an elderly person isn’t proper. They decide a child would be fine, like having a kitten.
My mother adds, “They’re offering five rubles a week and supper every evening after school — a full meal, fit for a rich man. The crumbs from their table would feed all of us. Go, my child, to cheder, and at night you’ll come home first, and I’ll take you there myself. You won’t have any work to do, but you’ll have a good supper and a good bed to sleep in, plus five rubles a week. I’ll be able to make you some clothes and buy you boots.”
It sounds good. Why does she have to cry? But she can’t do otherwise, my mother. She must cry!
B.
In the meantime I am going to Talmud Torah, but I’m not learning a thing. There isn’t even a seat for me. So I help the rebbetzin around the house and play with the cat. The rebbetzin’s work isn’t hard. I sweep the floors, help carry in wood, and do errands — it’s nothing, it’s not really work. I do everything but learn. Playing with the cat is more fun than learning. A cat, they say, is dirty. But that’s a lie — a cat is a clean animal. A cat, they say, is mischievous. It’s a lie — a cat is a devoted animal. A dog likes to flatter by wagging its tail. A cat grooms itself, and if you pet its head, it closes its eyes and purrs. I love a cat. But talk to my friends, and they’ll tell you a thousand stories about what’s wrong with cats. If you hold a cat, you have to wash your hands. If you hold a cat, it ruins your memory. What else will they come up with? Let a cat come near them, and they’ll kick it in its side. I can’t stand how they kick cats. They laugh at me — they have no compassion for poor living creatures. I’m talking about the children who go to Talmud Torah with me. They’re fiends. They laugh at me. They call me “stiff pants” and my mother “the weeper,” because she’s always crying.
“There goes your weeping mother!” they say to me. She’s come to pick me up from cheder and take me to my good-paying job.
C.
On the way my mother bemoans her bitter and grief-stricken life. God gave her two children, but she’s a lonely widow. My brother Elyahu, kayn eyn horeh, has married very well, in fact stumbled onto a gold mine. But his father-in-law is a boor — a baker, after all. What can you expect from a baker?
So my mother laments as we arrive at old man Luria’s. My mother says his place is like a royal palace. I’d love to live in a royal palace.
We enter the kitchen, my mother and I. It isn’t too shabby. The stove is white and sparkling. The utensils shine, everything shines. They ask us to sit. A woman enters, elegantly dressed. She talks with my mother and points to me. My mother nods in agreement and wipes her lips but won’t sit down. I do sit. My mother leaves and tells me to behave like a mensch. As she says it, she gets in a good cry and wipes her eyes. Tomorrow she’ll come for me and take me to cheder.
They feed me broth and challah (imagine, challah during the week!) and meat — lots of meat! After I finish eating, they tell me to go up, but I don’t know where “up” is. A cook named Chanah, a dark-haired woman with a long nose, leads me up a flight of carpeted stairs, which are a treat for my bare feet. It isn’t night yet, but the lamps are already burning, endless lamps. The walls are decorated with knickknacks and pictures. The chairs are covered with leather, and the ceiling is painted like in a synagogue, but even more beautifully. They lead me into a large room, so large that if I were by myself, I’d run from one wall to the other, or I’d lie down and roll on the satin carpet. It must be wonderful for rolling around on. Sleeping on it probably isn’t too bad either.
D.
In the room is a handsome man, tall, with a gray beard and a broad forehead, wearing a silk robe, a yellow silk yarmulke, and embroidered sparkling silk slippers. This is old Luria. He sits bent over a big, thick book. He says nothing but chews the tips of his beard, looks into the book, shakes his foot, and mumbles quietly to himself. A strange man, this old Luria. I look at him and wonder, Does he see me or doesn’t he? He doesn’t seem to, because he isn’t looking my way, and no one has told him about me. They simply brought me there, left, and locked the door behind me.
Suddenly old Luria calls out to me, still without looking at me, “Come here, and I’ll show you a bit of Rambam.”
To whom is he speaking? To me? He speaks to me in the polite form of address? I look around. Except for me no one else is there.
Old Luria mumbles again in his deep voice, “Come here, and you’ll see what Rambam says!”
I want very much to go closer to him. “Are you speaking to me?”
“You, you, who else?” old Luria says to me. I approach him. Still looking into the large book, he takes my hand, points with a finger, and tells me in a loud and passionate voice what Rambam says. He gets so worked up, he turns red as a beet. He gestures with his thumb for emphasis, and with his elbow he pokes me in the side repeatedly. “Nu, what do you say? It’s good, isn’t it?” he exclaims.
That it is good I cannot say, so I stay silent. The more I stay silent, the more worked up he gets. The more worked up he gets, the more silent I stay.
I hear the sound of a key from the other side of the door. The door opens, and in comes the elegantly dressed woman. She goes over to old Luria and shouts directly into his ear. He is apparently hard of hearing. She tells him to let me go now because I must sleep.
She leads me to another part of the room and lays me down on a sofa with real springs in it. The bedding is white as snow. The quilt is silky and soft — paradise! The elegant woman tucks me in, leaves, and locks the door from the other side.
As I lie on the sofa, old Luria paces the room, his hands clasped behind him. He looks down at his fine slippers while mumbling and grumbling and doing strange things with his eyebrows. I can hardly keep my eyes open. I want to sleep.
Suddenly old Luria comes up to me and says, “I am going to eat you up!”
I don’t understand what he is saying.
“Get up. I am going to eat you up.”
“Who? Me?”
“You! You! I must eat you! It can’t be otherwise!” says old Luria. He paces the room, head down, hands behind him, forehead furrowed. He speaks more quietly to himself.
I try to catch his words but can barely breathe from fright.
He asks questions and answers them himself. This is what old Luria is muttering: “The Rambam says the world is not ancient. But how can that be? For one reason must have another reason! How can I prove it? Just by willing it. But how? Right now I want to eat him, so I will eat him up. Then what? Out of pity? It doesn’t matter. I will do my will. The will doesn’t settle matters. I’ll eat him up. I want to eat him up. I must eat him up!”
E.
What great news to receive from old Luria — he must eat me up! What will my mother say? I’m terror-stricken. I’m shivering all over. The sofa I’m lying on is set away from the wall. I manage to slip off the sofa and slide down onto the floor between the sofa and the wall. My teeth are chattering. I listen intently and wait for him to come eat me up. And how will he do it? Silently I call for my mother, and wet drops roll down my cheeks into my mouth. The drops are salty. I’ve never longed so hard for my mother as now. I also long for my brother Elyahu, but not as much. I remind myself of my father, for whom I am still saying kaddish. Who will say kaddish for me if old Luria eats me up?