The widow's son. A story of Jewish life of the past

Front matter

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Chapter I. The Widow’s Sou

The village of Immenfeld is situated in one of the val¬ leys on the Rhine. Two centuries ago the houses, of which not one boasted of more than two stories, already looked as if they were tired of life and inclined to sink down into the abyss of mother earth. The village lay in a deep vale, at whose upper end a high hill rose towering to the clouds, bearing a splendid castle on its peak. This was indeed a contrast, for its gigantic minarets by no means corresponded with the poor huts in the valley. It looked so large and corpulent, so smooth and comfortable, that its aspect involuntarily recalled to mind the old Sclavonian superstition and adage, namely: That the bodies of deceased persons became vampires, and at night sucked the blood from their still living relations, who be¬ came weaker and weaker till they, in turn, were con¬ signed to their graves. This castle was a ghost of a time long past; a time in which all these sunken and ruined huts yet looked new and pretty, and did not lean so de-

THE WIDOW'S SON.

jectedly toward the earth. But afterward the castle must have become a vampire and drawn the blood and marrow from the village.

But not alone was the castle in its still, cold majesty a contrast to the village; it also suffered from a like evil, for directly opposite it, with only the length of the village between, was another hill. This also bore a burden on its back—white stones, like those of which the castle was built, but they were tomb-stones, numerous and mostly weather-beaten, half sunken and decayed, as was the whole village. It must have been that many people died, or that the graveyard was very old, for the hill down nearly into the valley was wholly covered with them.

The cemetery was indeed very old. It was the place where even longer than six hundred years ago the Jews of the village laid down their tired heads. Any one who knew of the piety with which the Jews regard their dead, must immediately have recognized this to be a Jewish graveyard, for only these leave their dead to everlasting rest. Bor other denominations like the soil better than the bones of their relations; they put five or six into one grave, or, perhaps, after thirty years, exhume and consign them to a vault built expressly for this purpose, called the charnel house, and inter new arrivals, under the false representation of everlasting rest, when the old occupants have been violently ejected. For this reason a graveyard so large as that of Immenfeld would have suf¬ ficed a populous city for thousands of years. But where two hundred years ago there was a Jewish cemetery in the place to which it belonged there certainly was a “ Jews Lane” or a ghetto—that is, an alley or a street in which the Jews were forced to live, suffer and die, before they were laid to everlasting rest.

Such was the case in Immenfeld. Apart fromt he dilap idated huts in the village lay the Jews’ Lane, with its houses, which, with the synagogue at the extreme end toward the graveyard, even less merited the appelation

THE WIDOW'S SON. b

houses** than the dwellings of their Gentile fellow-creatures.

The Jewish congregation of Immenfeld consisted of sixty bcCale batim (heads of families), unmarried persons who had no household of their own, or widows, not counted.

It was a chilly September morning, and the watchman, wrapped in his military cloak, brushed the dew from his beard and knocked at Farmer HannikeFs door, for the farmer wished to be up early, as he wanted to do his thresh¬ ing that day. The watchman, after he had blown thr^e blasts on his horn, called out the third hour of the morn¬ ing, which call was responded to by several rash roosters in the neighborhood. Now, having awakened the old farmer, he stationed himself beside the old synagogue in order to send his call down the ghetto, or Jews* Lane, for which favor he received an annual compensation from the Jewish congregation; for, being a Christian watch¬ man, appointed by his congregation, he was not in duty hound to guard the Jewish quarter without any special compensation.

But as he was in the act of applying the horn to his mouth, he became aware of a bowed figure which emerged from the last house in the Jews* Lane, and soon he heard the call for prayer, to him, wholly in an unin¬ telligible cry. The watchman lowered his horn and said, peevishly: “Well, if the sexton already calls to prayer,

I need not waste my service on the inhabitants of the ghetto.** It is but two weeks to the Day of Atonement, and as they blow the shofar (cornet,) the Jews rise up early at this season for propitiatory prayers and attend service at the synagogue.

Let us peep into one of the most dilapidated huts in the Jews* Lane. In an alcove separated from the room by an old chintz curtain, a hoy lay in deep, healthy slum¬ ber on an old chest which served for a bedstead; his cherry lips were partly opened, his cheeks glowed with

THE WIDOW'S SON.

the ruddy hue of health, and a look of pleasant excite¬ ment rested on his countenance.

“He dreams so sweetly,” said the little woman bend¬ ing over the sleeper, and holding aloft a little oil lamp, in order better to contemplate his features with eyes which had been sorely tried by tears and cares.

With a deep contented sigh the boy now turned to the wall, thus withdrawing his pretty face from the woman’s view.

“ I must wake him,” muttered she, “ I must wake him, so that he can eat something before day, and I don't want to wait for the sexton's second call, for that breaks in rudely upon sleepers!”

She called softly several times, “Joseph! my good boy, get up, it is time; arise, dear, they are calling to prayers already.”

But the boy did not stir, and slept on peacefully. The woman pulled his arm gently several times, but without effect; he only turned his face toward her again, and muttered some words in his sleep. Now the woman fairly started with affright—several sharp blows resounded on the rotten shutters. This worked like magic. The boy shot from the bed like an arrow from the bow, and almost overthrew the woman.

“Hurrah! Long live the general!” cried he, but fell back immediately on the bed and stared sleepily on the little oil lamp.

Soon his face lit up intelligently, and he said pleas¬ antly: “Good-morning, mother dear; it is morning, is it not ?”

“Yes, yes, although it is still very early, Joseph, but to-day is the first Selichoth day, beginning of the ten penitential days, and as you will be Bar Mitzvah (con¬ firmed) next year, you must fast to-day, and I awoke you in order that you may partake of some nourishment before day-break, and ere you attend service at syna¬ gogue.”

THE WIDOW’S SON.

“Very well, mother,” said the boy, begining to dress himself; “but I would rather you had let me sleep a little while longer, so that I could have dreamed out my beautiful dream. Oh, mother, mother, how glorious it was! I dreamed that I had become general of a vast army, and as I rode along proudly on my horse, the sol¬ diers presented arms, and all the drums beat a salute, just like last year in Cologne, and then you marred my prospect by awaking me."

“Your drummer was the sexton who beat on the shut¬ ters with his hammer/’ said the mother, with a smile, while she assisted him in his simple toilet.

“Oh, what a difference/’sighed Joseph, “between a drum-major and a sexton; if I was Parnass (President of the Congregation), the sexton would fiave to call for prayers with a grenadier’s cap on his head, and a white leather apron.”

“St, st,” said the mother; “you must not rail at sacred things, my son.”

“ But, mother, the sexton is not a reverend; my teacher. Rabbi Mordechai, is so, for he reads the Thorah, while the sexton does nothing of the kind.”

“No matter, my child; for you know that one who impels another to do a good deed may expect as great a reward in the next world as the one who has done the deed, and further that any one who tempts another to evil must expect the same punishment as the evil-doer. Now, the sexton is the one who reminds almost all the members of the congregation to go to the synagogue, or that they are to perform some charitable act; he is there¬ fore, properly speaking, the admonisher to good, and for this reason, my child, you must not mock him.”

It was not certain whether Joseph was convinced by the argument of his mother. Suffice it to say, that he remained in a contemplative mood, even while he was consuming his warmed oat-meal porridge. (Coffee was then a luxury which only the wealthiest people could in¬ dulge in). Still the precept that he who urges another

THE WIDOW'S SON .

to a good and noble deed lays by the reward for himself, seemed to have made a deep impression on his mind, for he said:

“Mother dear, when in future times I will have become a captain, I will try to urge my subalterns to love God and perform charitable deeds.”

His mother, who sat opposite him, raised her eyes and glanced at him almost peevishly.

“Hush!” she said, reprovingly, “hush, with your fool¬ ish dreamings; how often have I explained to you that Jews cannot become soldiers, not to say officers.”

“ Oh, pshaw, they only need will it,” said Joseph, fret¬ fully; “ they only ought to desire it fervently, and take the great kings and judges in Holy Scripture for their proto¬ types, and they will become as valiant warriors and great commanders as they.”

“My son, we are in galuth (exile), and it is our duty to be submissive and not enrage our enemies, for their power is great, and the wrath of God rests heavily upon us.”

Joseph did not answer, for he knew his mother did not approve of plans that seemed so extraordinary and am¬ bitious to a Jew of that time. He got up quickly, put his old cap on his black curly hair, took his prayer book, which he ardently kissed, and was about to depart. But now his mother put a great book, the weight of which almost bore him down, under his arm.

“ Here,” said she, “take this Machsor (festive volume). It belonged to your father—peace be with him!—and it's the first time since his death that it is carried worthily to the synagogue again.”

The good woman dried a few tears and Joseph's lower lip quivered.

“ Now go, and God be with you, my Joseph,” she then said, patting him lightly on the back. “Next year you will already have taken the yoke of the Thorah upon you, and be a man, responsible for your own actions, which you must yourself expiate. When you come home,” contin-

THE WIDOW'S SON.

tied his mother, “ you may go to Cobbler Christians’ orchard and pick up the fruit which has fallen from the trees during the night. Half of it belongs to you; the other half you must take to the Cobbler; that’s what he said to me yesterday. But bring your Machsor and prayer-book home first.”

Joseph stepped forth from the door of the little hut. It was chilly, and he felt all the more so as he saw no other human being on the street. All the houses in the Jew’s Lane were more or less alight, but still Joseph must have started too early, for when he reached the synagogue, which was already open, but there was not a single person within.

The many sayings and legends which circulate in regard to a synagogue are sufficient to infuse a solemn dread and awe, and it seemed very gloomy to Joseph; furthermore, the universal and beautiful belief, that the Shekinah, the Divine Majesty, dwells therein; that angels hold their meetings in an empty synagogue, and that therefore, the one who enters first must knock lightly, exercised such a powerful influence on the twelve-year-old boy, that he stepped back, overcome by holy awe, and resolved to walk on a little and wait until a few men had entered the synagogue before him. He therefore strolled quietly on, contemplating the morning sky, which had just spread a light-gray veil over the Jewish graveyard. There stood all the tombstones of many generations, and seemed to look longingly down at the village and at the Jewish Lane. In the doubtful light of early morning, they seemed to nod their heads gravely at the boy; nay, he even thought he distinguished, amid the endless mass of simple, sorrowful monuments, the gravestone which stood over the last resting-place of his father—the man who was so loved and honored, not only by the Jews of the village, but by all the noblemen who possessed estates and castles in the neighborhood; that father who had been known as “ Old Bonafit,” and whose honesty had become proverbial as his poverty. But his father had

THE WIDOW’S SON.

been proud of his poverty and adversity, for it p oceedcd from his exaggerated sense of integrity.

And just a year and four weeks ago, while lying on his dying bed, that father had said to his son, who under¬ stood him very well, as he was already able to expound a page of Gemarah without the help of Rabbi Mordechai:

“My son, I leave you no earthly goods, but you will inherit a diadem, the most beautiful that can grace a human being, the crown of a good name; for, according to the sayings of our sages of blessed memory, it is a gem more glorious than that of the Thor ah, of royalty, or of priesthood. This, therefore, I leave you as your inherit¬ ance, for I have worn it. At times it is heavy; often it is oppressive, but in the hour of death the rubies and diamonds in this splendid crown shine brightly, make death easy, and inspire a blessed hope of a glorious life in the hereafter. And see, here is your mother; part of the crown is hers, for she has helped in constructing it; she has set many precious stones in the crown of my good name, and whenever its luster threatened to grow dim, she has tried to restore it to its brilliancy. My son, do not rob your mother of her share in this diadem; hold it in particular veneration, for the greater part of the child’s good name falls back on the mother!”

How well all this recurred to Joseph as he stood there; he thought to hear again the weak, venerable voice of his sainted father, while his eyes rested fixedly on yonder hill covered with gravestones. But—merciful God! what was that? Joseph’s tongue clove to his mouth, his legs trembled beneath him, Machsor and prayer-book slipped from his hands and he sank on his knees, his eyes still directed in fixed terror toward the cemetery!

Chapter II. A Fine Specimen Of Nobility

If Joseph Bonafit had seen by day that which now so sorely terrified him, he would have felt neither fear nor anxiety; but at night, near such a spot, and busied with

THE WIDOW'S SON.

thoughts of death, after he had barely recovered from the solemn awe with which the empty synagogue had inspired him, it seemed to Joseph as if a gigantic coffin rose from among the tombstones, and that it was drawn by two monsters who moved to and fro uneasily. He could not remove his eyes from the dreadful apparition, and presently he saw it move down the hill straight toward him!

It grew larger and more monstrous the nearer it came, and it came with fearful speed. He wished to flee and could not; he felt as he had often done in dreams, when he wished to escape from some monster, yet could not stir a step, while all the time certain that the awful thing would devour him the next moment. How the apparition could be barely a hundred paces distant! Joseph drew a long, relieved breath, for what had so terrified him was a coach and pair of horses which rolled down the road leading close by the graveyard with furious speed. But his heart contracted again and fear took possession of him, for he could not hear the least noise. Mutely and noiselessly the vehicle now flew past him; silently the eight horses’ hoofs beat the stony ground, and mutely the driver on the box guided his horses.

However, Joseph ventured to glance about him, and look after the ghostly team. But wonder of wonders! The carriage drew up before Cobbler Christian’s house; the driver got down from his box, opened the coach door, and then Joseph heard him tap softly on Christian’s window-shutters.

What could the poor drunken cobbler have to do with the carriage at early morning? Joseph could not deter¬ mine; but one thing was certain, that he had to do with actual men and horses, not with phantoms. But now the door was opened, the cobbler—Joseph recognized him by the faint light—came forth, and approached the car¬ riage door, took posession of a somewhat heavy package, and disappeared with it into the house.

The driver immediately remounted his box, turned his

THE WIDOW'S SON.

horses, and rolled back the road as noiselessly as he had; come, but this time at a very slow pace.

The gray cloud oyer the graveyard had assumed a rosy coloring; suddenly a golden beam darted forth, illumin¬ ing carriage and driver, as well as the still kneeling boy..

Not ten paces from him the carriage again drew up,, the driver descended from the box and busied himself' about the wheels and the horses’ hoofs. Now it became clear to Joseph why the coach had rolled so silently. The wheels and the horses’ hoofs had been covered with felt, which, as secrecy was no longer necessary, was now being taken off.

Joseph rightly guessed that he had been a witness of a transaction which it would have been better for him to know nothing of. He arose quickly in order to make his way from the spot.

Such a dreadful face looked out at him from the front window of the carriage, that the poor boy’s heart almost stood still with fear. It was the face of a man in his prime, but who was so dreadfully thin as to look like a living skeleton. His nose, bent like a hawk’s bill, almost touched his upper lip; his gray, pointed whiskers reached down to his breast; but his eyes, of a gray color like that of an owl, were the most awful Joseph had ever seen, and held the poor boy captive by their magic power.

“ John,” now cried the dreadful figure in the carriage, “catch that fellow there; he has been watching us.”

Joseph uttered a cry of terror, and when the man in the carriage opened the door in order to alight, he fled like a frightened fawn, leaving prayer-book and Machsor to their fate. He ran instinctively in the direction of the graveyard and nimbly hopped about among the tomb¬ stones.

John, the driver, perseveringly pursued him, but im¬ peded by his cloak and heavy boots, he could not gain upon the fleeing boy, who by his agony of fear ran higher and higher up the hill. Suddenly a sharp, piercing whistle sounded, from below, and when Joseph looked

THE WIDOW’S SON.

IS back, he saw the driver beating a hasty retreat. Joseph sat down to rest on the tombstone, and saw the driver and his master engaged in an apparently very earnest conversation, while the latter held his books in his hands, and at last put them in the carriage.

Joseph knew that the books could not betray him, for there was no name in them; but he was grieved at the loss of the Mciclisor in particular, as it was his heirloom, and he remembered his mother's assertion that it was to come to honor again.

When Joseph saw the carriage set in motion and come up the road, he hastened down the other side of the hill, and thus gained the road which led alongside the village, in an opposite direction from the graveyard, to the hill on which the castle stood.

Joseph was by no means in a happy mood; for, besides the various frights he had undergone, he had to ex¬ pect at home the most bitter reproaches from his mother for the loss of his books, as well as his absence from the synagogue, which had no doubt already been imparted to her by some kind busy-body. He wished to enter the village from the opposite side, in order at least to carry out the pleasantest part of his morning's work—picking up the fruit in Cobbler Christian's garden—when he sud¬ denly remembered that Christian had played a prominent part in the carriage affair, and he now fairly shuddered at the thought of the cobbler. His curiosity to know what the latter had received did not torment him greatly, for he felt that it could only be dangerous, as carriages did not come at night, nor were wheels covered with felt for trifles. Joseph thoughtfully sat down on the stump of a tree, which stood by the side of the road; he wished to await the time when he could go home without much danger of his receiving a rebuke; he knew that his mother had to go out to nurse a sick person that day; she had, etas! been obliged to take up this employment ever since his father's death.

To the right of Joseph a swamp extended far out ta

THE WIDOW'S SON.

where a little brook sluggishly flowed through it; this brook was spanned by single trunks of trees laid close to each other, probably the commencement of a once pro¬ jected bridge. Of course, only the foolhardy boys of the village ventured to balance themselves on those round, slippery trunks; in a better community than that of Immenfeld this poor bridge would have been cleared away long since, in order to prevent an accident; for a fall from the slippery trees was synonymous with a slow, sure death in the swamp below.

Well, at the border of the swamp, which this morning was covered with myriads of frost beads, sat Joseph, from sheer ennui , looking up the hill to the castle, a sacred ground which the feet of a Jewish boy durst not tread; for the rishuth (hatred of Jews) in the castle since the widowed baroness and her son resided there, had become proverbial. Even the sight of this high-born son, who was of the same age as Joseph, had till now been denied the profane glances of the Jewish hoys of the village; but their fathers seldom thought of him without indignation, for the young gentleman indulged in the harmless pleas¬ antry of stuffing pig-bones into the pockets of the Jews, when they were at any work in the castle, and thus rend¬ ered the frugal lunch they generally had there unfit for use; or he set his dog on a Jew who was groaning under a load he bore on his back; or he sneaked out behind and thrust burning papers into his shoes while he was engaged in earnest conversation. All this, the poor peo¬ ple were obliged to endure, for they almost all depended on the gracious baroness, who was highly amused by her son’s tricks, and called herEgmont (such was the villain’s name) a witty little angel. Once only, a Jew, who was not known in this region, had dared to avenge the wrongs of the Jews of Immenfeld, and this constitutes the town talk even to this day. This man carried a large chest, in which were all sorts of fancy wares, on his back. He had come to the castle to try to sell some of his wares to the domestics, and stood conversing with them in the large

THE WIDOW'S SON.

hall. Ho rested the chest on his sturdy walking-stick, and then leaned back on it. But the young baron, unob¬ served by the Jew, tied a rope to the stick and then, stationing himself at a distance, drew away the stick with a strong pull, so that both man and chest lost their bal¬ ance, and fell back amid the loud laughter of the serv¬ ants. The Jew was not only a very passionate but an exceedingly strong man. He sprang up, seized the rope, which lay near him, shoved the men-servants, who wished to restrain him, to one side, as if they were feathers, placed the spoiled boy, who yelled death and murder, across his knees, and despite the blows which fell like hail on his own back, gave him such a severe castigation that the young baron had to keep his bed eight days. The peddler’s sturdy stick then kept his pursuers at bay, although he had to leave his chest of wares behind him. He escaped, followed by the threats of the servants (who did not really wish to catch him, as the young baron had often ill-treated them) and the loud cries of the gracious lady and her well-whipped son. As the baroness ordered his arrest, he was obliged to remain concealed some time in the Ghetto of Immenfeld; here he received assistanc® enough from the Jews he had avenged so well to purchase a fresh supply of goods.

But since the young baron had been whipped so un¬ mercifully by a Jew his hate for the Jews knew no bounds, and daily he importuned his mother to allow no Jews to come to the castle, to which, however, his noble mother could not consent, as she was head over ears in debt, and the castle would have long since been sold at auction but for Jewish money.

Joseph thougt of all this while his glances rested on the castle, the gray gate of which he now could plainly see. Thoughts of the brave Jew made his bosom swell with pride; he felt a strong desire to stand opposite this spoilt child, of whose feebleness go many stories were told; he wanted to show him there were more Jews who were not afraid.

/6

THE WIDOW'S SON.

Just at this moment a little door in the great castfe wall flew open and a boy clad in a blue blouse stepped out.

He looked around warily, then ran down the hill straight to the spot where Joseph was sitting on the stump. There he halted, out of breath, and regarded Joseph with as much malice as curiosity. The latter also looked silently at the boy and perceived that the stories of his feebleness had not been exaggerated; for he knew immediately that this was the young baron. The boy's face had a bluish tint, and its thinness was extraordinary. Scanty hair of a sandy color hung ungracefully about his temples. The watery blue eyes seemed starting from their sockets, and the nose, bent almost to the bloodless lips, gave the boy's face a striking resemblance to that of the man whose mysterious proceedings Joseph had been a witness of.

After the two boys had stared at each other for awhile, the fair one began:

“I am Baron Egmont, what is your name?"

“ My name is Joseph Bonafit," answered the other just as haughtily, “and I am not a baron."

The fair boy frowned, then said:

“So you are not a baron; consequently, according to mamma's views, I ought not to play with you; but I have run away from my tutor this morning, and I don't care with whom I play; for I mean to be happy for once, to skip and climb as merrily as the children of our serv¬ ants."

While Egmont spoke he flourished a thin switch, which he held in his hand, and essayed to assume a joyous ex¬ pression.

“Come," he cried, pulling at the ragged jacket of Joseph, who made no movement to rise, “come, be a horse, I will be a driver!"

“ I won't play with you," cried Joseph, roughly.

“Why not?"

“You are not good enough for me, sir baron!"

THE WIDOW'S SON.

“ Wha-what!” cried Egmont, and his eyes grew even more prominent. “ A baron is not good enough for you? Why, you silly fellow?”

“ Because I am a Jew; therefore, you are not good enough for me to play with.”

Rage and malice distorted Egmont’sface .even more; he opened and closed his great mouth in order to bring forth some invective, but could not succeed in finding one strong enough for the outrage which had been done him.

He raised his switch for a blow, hut Joseph arose quickly and stepped up so close to the hoy, that he could not hit him.

ei Listen, baron!” said Joseph, his voice trembling with subdued rage; “ one blow and I will throw you into this swamp like some loathsome reptile.”

Egmont retreated a step, and lowered his whip in a cowardly manner; then he turned and said contemptu¬ ously:

“Ah, hah! I will not soil my hands on a filthy boy!”

He glanced over the swamp and discovered the trees laid across the brook. From the windows of the castle he had often watched the boys crossing on these trees, skill¬ fully preserving their balance, and he had often felt a desire to do the same. He therefore approached the swamp and placed his foot on the first tree.