OAK STREET LIBRARY FACILITY LITTLE BLUE BOOK NO. 489 Edited by E. Haldeman-Julius Yiddish Short Stories Edited by Isaac Goldberg HALDEMAN-JULIUS COMPANY GIRARD, KANSAS ¥S2. YIDDISH SHORT STORIES ‘2A INTRODUCTION Of the authors represented in this little col- lection, Isaac Leib Perez stands foremost in time and in renown. By more than one com- petent critic he has been found worthy to ac- cupy a distinguished place among the writers of the nineteenth century in any tongue. Medi- ocre as a dramatist, he rises as a poet and particularly as an artist in prose to moments of unaffected genius. Rarely is his allegory without that humanizing quality which keeps it from degenerating into merely pictorial eva- sions of thought. If allegory, not even in the hands of a Dante, cannot always be kept free from the adulteration of a wilful symbolism, there are times when it represents so success- fully the inner intention of the creator that it becomes in a very true sense a creation. That arch-enemy of allegorical writing, Benedetto Croce, has shown how in many a passage of the great Florentine’s Commedia it is possible, indeed, esthetically necessary,—to throw all thought of Dante’s concealed meanings to the winds and let the picture and the words speak for the human Dante behind them. Before Croce, Federico De Sanctis—who anticipated more than a little of Croce’s methods in literary criticism, and to whom Croce is so greatly in- debted—demonstrated the same sanative truth. In such simple tales of Perez as ‘‘Bontsche the Silent,” or the “Three Gifts” here included, the allegorical methcd is purged of all cryptic 4 YIDDISH SHORT STORIES allusions. It becomes essentially human, essen- tially of the earth, for all its preoccupations with heaven. Pinski, perhaps the foremost dramatist of his race, first won his reputation for his stories of the rising Yiddish proletariat. He is, indeed, the discoverer of the proletariat in Yiddish fiction, and was himself ‘‘discovered” by Perez Pinski is pre-eminently a psychologist. Wheth er one reads his numerous plays* or the book of tales that appeared in English a number of years ago, one divines first of all the prober or human souls and the passions engendered within them. His “Beruriah” is, to me, one of the masterpieces of the short story in mod- ern days, none the less contemporaneous for its origin in a Talmudic setting. “The Tale. of a Hungry Man,’ by which he is here rep- resented, combines in admirable fashion his — early proletarian interests with his psychologi- cal methods. . Asch is to the Yiddish novel what Pinski is to the drama. He is that rare phenomenon, a spontaneous artist with all the virtues and defects of improvisation. Of his longer novels, “Mottke the Vagabond” and ‘Uncle Moses,” both in English, give an idea of his accom- plishments with old-world and new-world set- tings. In his short fiction he is notable for a poetic realism, a mingling of the so-called romantic and the so-called realistic, that is evident in so outwardly coarse a play as “The God of Vengeance.” *See the end of the book for Yiddish works Pro- curable in- EngHsh.:- . YIDDISH SHORT STORIES 5 Raisin is, in fiction, the artist of miniatures, of cameos, of impressions. He is hardly con- cerned with the surprise-ending, the “punch” and other commercial desiderata of our lesser Amer- ican stories. With the facility of journalistic comparisons he has been called “the Yiddish Chekhov”; who, among the Jewish writers, has not at one time or other been the “Yiddish This-or-That?” Yet there is an element of suggestive virtue in the coupling of the names, and there have been moments when Chekhov and Maupassant signed worse things than “A Game,” though often they signed far better. Shapiro, of the writers here included, is the least widely known. There is something un- real to his visions, yet for all their external un- reality they grip the reader with an indubitable power. “The Kiss” is one of his best pogrom tales. If he is scarcely known to outsiders it is because he deserves a far greater recogni- tion from his own people. Opatoshu (pen name of Joseph Opatovsky) has strengthened a reputation as short-story writer with his added success as a novelist. His fondness for nature, for animals and for Khassidie types provides a rich background for his restless imagination. Of the younger writ- ers—if a writer is still young under forty—he shows as good promise as any of attaining to a lofty place.* ISAAC GOLDBERG. *For permission to include Pinski’s A Tale of a Hungry Man from the volume of his short stories published by Brentano’s under the title Tempta- tions, I am indebted to both the author and the _publishers.—I, G. : 6 YIDDISH SHORT STORIES THREE GIFTS ISAAC LEIB PEREZ I, THE SCALES OF JUSTICE Somewhere many and many a year ago, a Jew breathed his last. No one, of course, may live for ever. The man was dead; the attentions due the dead were paid, and a grave among the folk of his own faith lodged him. The grave closed over him, the orphaned son recited his Kaddish and the soul flew upward —to Judgment. On arriving there it found the scale of Jus-. tice already swinging in the court chamber. Here the good deeds and the evil were to be weighed. And forthwith the dead man’s Ad- vocate enters, the Good Spirit of his former life. A pure, snow-white sack is in his hand and he stands near the right scale of the Balance. And behold the dead man’s Accuser enters— the Evil Spirit of his former life. An unclean sack is in his hands and he stands near the left scale of the Balance. The sack of pure white contains the good deeds. The sack that is begrimed and black—the evil, sinful deeds. And the vindicator of the soul pours out the contents of the white sack on the right scale. The good deeds are of the odor of incense and glow with the radiancy of the stars. The Ac- cuser pours out the contents of the unclean sack on the leit scale of the Balance, The evil deedy YIDDISH SHORT STORIES 7 —Heaven protect us—are as black as coal, and reek of the very stench of tar and pitch. And the poor soul stares at it all—and gasps. It never dreamt to behold such a distinction between the “Good” and the “Evil.” “There” it had often recognized neither of them and had mistaken the one for the other. The scales rise gradually. Now the one, now the other moves up and down....and the indi- cator oscillates now a hair’s breadth to the left, now a trifle towards the right. But a hair’s breadth variation and that gradually....an or- dinary mortal this soul must have been; nei- ther rebellious to the Holy Spirit nor yet dwel- ling much within it....capable of trivial vir- tues and trivial vices only. The scales held but little particles, tiny dots of things, at times hardly visible to the eye. And yet, what a clamor of joy and of gladness from the empyrean when the Balance indicator turns but a trifle towards the right and what racking cries of agony mark every turn to the left. And slowly, ever so slowly the angels empty the sacks. With a zest they show up the tiny particles, just as decent burghers will add one farthing to another in self-exhibition to a see- ing world. However, the deepest well will run dry—and the sacks, too, are soon empty. “Ts that all?” inquires the court-usher. He, too, is an angel among his like. Both the Good end the Evil Spirits turn their sacks inside out. Absolutely nothing more. The court- tsnoer steps forward to the Balance. He ex- smines the indicator to see whether it is in- 8 YIDDISH SHORT STORIES clined towards the right or the left; and he stares at it good and long; for he beholds some- thing that none ever saw since first the Heav- ens and the Earth knew creation.... “Why such hesitancy?’ demands the Chief Justice. And the usher mutters: “But one moment! The index is exactly in the center. The Evil deeds and the Good are exactly of the same weight.” “Is that absolutely so?’ queries a voice from about the table. The usher looks yet again: ‘Yea even to a hair’s breadth.” The Heavenly Tribunal holds its consultation and the decision as to the sentence is thus pro- nounced: ‘Since the Evil deeds do not weigh more than the good—the soul, of course, is free from Hell. But, on the other hand, since the Good deeds do not prevail over the Evil— neither can Paradise receive her.* Therefore she is to be neither here, nor there, but a wanderer between the realms of Heaven and Earth, until the Lord have mercy upon her and in His goodness cali her unto him.” And the usher of the courts leads the soul away. She sobs, and bemoans her fate. “Why art thou weeping?” he asks her. “’Tis true thou wilt not know the joy and the glad- ness of Eden, but neither will the agonies and pangs of Hell be thine.” But the soul, unconsoled, replies: “The worst agony is pret ere hie to nothing at all. Nothing is most dreadful. *Soul is feminine in Yiddish. (tr.) YIDDISH SHORT STORIES 9 And the heavenly usher pities her and offers her some advice. “Fly downward-little soul, and hover about the living world of men. Gaze not unto heaven. For what-canst thou see on the other side, but the little stars. Radiant little people—they cer- tainly are, but alas, very cold. They know no pity. They’ll never speak to the Lord about you. Only the pious souls of Paradise will go to such trouble for a poor, exiled soul....but they....hearken unto me....they do love gifts, fair and beautiful gifts.” The usher talked bitterly. ‘Such are the ways of Paradise, nowadays. Fly downward, then, to the living world and watch life there and its ccurse. And if thou only catchest a glimpse of something that is surpassingly fair or good, seize thou it, and fly up to heaven. Present it as a gift to the pious there. Knock at the little window and in my name, speak to the angel-guard. And when thou wilt have brought three gifts—why then be certain that the gates of Heaven will be unbarred....they will manage to have it so for thee....At the Throne of Honor, the well-born are not loved ....but the well-grown....” And in this wise, and with compassion, he thrusts her out of Paradise. Il. THE FIRST GiFT The poor little soul flies downward to the world of the living in search of gifts for the pious people of Heaven. It hovers about, every- where; about the villages and the towns, about every habitation of man, amid the burning rays 10 YIDDISH SHORT STORIES of hottest summer; amid the drops and water spears of rainy autumn; amid the silver web, fantastical, in the last days of summer; amid the snowflakes that fall from above....It gazes ebout and about till it well-nigh spends its sight. Wherever and whenever it spies a Jew it runs hastily up to him and looks at him in- tently—perhaps he is on his way to Prayer— to bless the name of the Lord. Wherever a light breaks through the chink of a shutter— she is there, to peep inside, to see whether the Lora’s fragrant flowerets, the secret deeds of good, blossom in that silent house. Alas!.... most of the time it must dart away from the window in agony and dismay.... And thus season follows season, and year follows year. Oft, the soul becomes moody and sullen. Cities turn into graveyards, the grave- yards into fields of pasture; forests are felled. The pebbles of the brook become sand; rivers have changed their courses; myriads of stars have fallen and myriads of souls have flown upward; but the gracious Lord has never thought of her; neither has she found aught that was beautiful or good. And she thinks within herself: “How poor the whole world is. Its people—how mediocre; their souls—how dark and obscure....How can aught good be found here? Alas! I must rove about—an exile, forever.” But suddenly a red flame bursts before her. Out of the dark and gloomy night a red flame leaps forth. She stares about her....’Tis from an upper window of a house that the flame has YIDDISH SHORT STORIES 11 shot forth. Robbers are attacking a wealthy man. Masks are on their faces. One holds a burning torch in his hands; another holds a blazing knife at the man’s breast and repeats his threat again and again: “Jew, make but the slightest motion and you are dead. The knife will most assuredly pass through your back, then.’ The others are all busy, opening chests and drawers. The man looks serenely about him, although the knife is at his breast. The brows above his lucid eyes do not quiver. Not a hair of that gray beard that reaches to the waist moves. All of it seems to be something that is not his concern. ‘‘The Lord hath given, the Lord tak- eth away,” he muses, and his pale lips mutter: “Blessed be the name of the Lord.” “One is not born thus and one may not carry it all to his grave.” He views them calmly when they are about to clear the last drawer of the last bureau and watches, in absolute silence, the pillage of the gold and the silver, the jewelry and other precious things! Perhaps he is renouncing it all! But all at once—as the robbers are about to lay hold upon the last hidden treasure—a little sack, hidden in the most secret nook of all— he forgets himself—trembles all over, his eyes are bloodshot, and he stretches his right hand forward, to the weapon. He would, as it seems, cry out! “Touch it not!” But the cry is unuttered. A red, vaporous stream of blood shoots forth, the knife has done its work...,It is the beart’s blood that be- 12 YIDDISH SHORT STORIES sprinkles the little sack. He falls to the ground. The robbers tear the little sack open in a hurry. That will be the best—the most precious gain of all! But what a grievous error! The blood had been shed in vain—neither silver, nor gold, nor jewels were there. Naught of any value in this world. It was a little measure of sand from the Holy Land, to be strewn on his face at burial. That, the wealthy man had wished to save from the hands and gaze of strangers. That had shed his blood....and the soul seizes ~ a blood-soiled particle of the sand and knocks at the little window of Heaven. Her first gift found ready acceptance. Il, THE SECOND GIFT “Remember now,” said the angel as he bar- red the window. “Remember—two more of- ferings.” “The Lord will aid me”’—thinks the soul, grown hopeful; and joyously flies down again. However, her gladness lasts but a little while. Again, years follow years and she can find nothing that is surpassingly beautiful. And her melancholy returns to her. “The world has, it seems, forsaken the way of the Lord, and like a spring ever runs out and out. The more the water that flows into the soil, the more sucked in—the more the soil becomes foul and unclean. Fewer are the gifts for heaven then. Men become ever petty and more petty. Their good deeds grow tiny; their evil deeds blacker and blacker dust—their deeds are hard- YIDDISH SHORT STORIFS 13 And thus speaking to herself she seems to think that should the Lord command: all the evil deeds and the good of the world to be weighed ir the Balance, that the needle would hardly move, yea, not even tremble. The earth can hardly rise or fall now, she is but a wan- derer from the empyrean above to the black abyss of Sheol below.