Status Updates From Jewish Children

“Many waters cannot quench love."....

"Neither can floods drown it.”

“Thou hast doves' eyes within thy locks: thy hair is as a flock of goats, that appear from mount Gilead.

"Thy teeth are like a flock of sheep that are even shorn, which come up from the washing: whereof every one bear twins, and none is barren among them.

"Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and thy speech is comely: thy temples are like a piece of pomegranate within thy locks.”

I took my "Gemarra" under my arm, kissed the "Mezuzah," and went off to "Cheder" like one newly born, with a clean heart, and fresh, pious thoughts. The sun looked down, and greeted me with its warm rays. The little breeze stole in under one of my earlocks. The birds twittered—Tif—tif—tif—tif! I was lifted up. I was borne on the breeze. I wanted to run, jump, dance...

Do you know what "blind-man's-buff" is? Well, then I will tell you. You take a boy, bandage his eyes with a handkerchief, place him in the middle of the floor, and all the boys fly round him crying: "Blindman, blindman, catch me!"

Mottel and Esther also play at "blind-man's-buff" with us. They like the game because, when they are playing it, they can chase one another—she him, and he her.

“Now the serpent was more subtil than any beast of the field."

Boys who sit so close together, though they shake and shout aloud, cannot help getting to know one another, or exchange a few words. And so it was..

"And Adam knew (here are buttons for you) Eve his wife. (Give me a locust-bean and I will give you a pull of my cigarette.)"

"And she conceived and bare Cain. (Who told you I have locust-beans?)”

There was heard a familiar cough, a familiar footfall.& our hearts were frozen.All our limbs were paralysed,deadened.We were reading aloud,but still our lips muttered: "Father in Heaven,will there never come an end to this tyrant,this Pharaoh,this Haman, this Gog-Magog?Or will there ever come a time when we shall be rid of this hard,hopeless,dark tyranny? No,never,never!"

To Boaz laughing is a danger to the soul. Boaz has never laughed as long as he is alive. And he hates to see any one else laughing. One might easily have promised the greatest reward to the person who could swear he once saw Boaz laughing. Boaz is not a man for laughter. His face is not made for it. If Boaz laughed, he would surely look more terrible than another man crying. (There are such faces in the world.)

This went on until the Days of Mourning arrived—the time of the elections.& there began a struggle between the two factions trying to attract the most followers by every means in its power. One faction tried impassioned words, enflamed speeches; the other, soft words, roast ducks, dainties, and liberal promises. And just think who won? You will never guess.

The most foolish song has a lot of power in it. When the throat is singing the head is thinking. And it thinks so long until it arrives at a conclusion. Thoughts whirl and whirl and fret one so long, until something results. And when one's imagination is enkindled, a story is sure to grow out of it...

They say that children become men,& men become children. Many generations have grown up,become men,& gone hence. The youngsters became greybeards. The little wretches became self-supporting young men. The young men got married & became householders.The householders became old men,& still Isshur was Isshur.

He who wants to find favour with everybody will find favour with nobody. And if one has to bow down, let it be to the head, not to the feet.

You’ll tell your mother on him?You want to know what will happen?You will go home & show your mother your torn ear.Your mother will pounce on your father.You see how the tyrant has torn the ear of your child—your only son.Your father will take you by the hand to the synagogue,& straight over to Isshur the beadle,as if to say to him:Here,see what you have done to my only son.You have almost torn off his ear

One day, shortly before the New Year, Leibel overheard the following conversation between his father and his mother.

He: "Though the world turn upside down, I must have a citron this year!"

She: "The world will not turn upside down, and you will have no citron."

He: "That's what you say. But supposing I have already been promised something towards a citron?"

Ah, Busie! She was not changed by so much as a hair. She was not different in the least detail. She had only grown up—grown up and also grown more beautiful than she had been, more lovely. She had grown up exactly as she had promised to grow, tall and slender, and ripe, and full of grace. Her eyes were the same blue "Song of Songs" eyes, but more thoughtful than in the olden times.

Ah,Busie,why are you afraid, little fool? Hold on to me.Or, let us take hold of one another, you of me,& I of you.See?That's right—that's right.

No more little bridge.

We still cling to one another,as we walk along.We are alone in this Garden of Eden.Busie holds me tightly, very tightly.She is silent, but I imagine she is talking to me in the words from the "Song of Songs":

"My beloved is mine, and I am his”

The mother, careworn and hollow-cheeked, with her work never finished, expects her children to sit still and keep quiet. It seems she does not know that young heads will think, and young souls are eager and restless. They want to go. Where? Out of doors, to the light. To the window—to the window.

If my pen were an artist's brush,or at the very least a photographic camera,I would create for you, my friend, a picture of a rare group of three pretty little heads, of three poor naked, barefoot Jewish children.All three little heads are black,& have curly hair.The eyes are big & shiny & burning.They gaze out in wonder,& seem to be always asking of the world the one question: Wherefore?

He is small, thin, dried-up, hideously ugly. He hasn't even the signs of a moustache or beard or eyebrows. Not because he shaved. God forbid,but simply because they would not grow. But for that again he had a pair of lips and a nose. Oh, what a nose!It was curved like a ram's horn. And he had a voice like a bull.He growled like a lion. Where did such a creature get such a terrible roar?

An experienced card-player, the story goes, half an hour before his death called his son—also a gambler—to his bedside, and said to him:

"My child, I am going from this world. We shall never meet again. I know you play cards. You have my nature. You may play as much as you like, only take care not to play yourself out."

I stretched out my hand to him,& with tears in my eyes I said: "Elijah the Prophet,dear,kind,loving, darling Elijah,give me one minute to think." He turned towards me his handsome,yellow,wrinkled old face with its grizzled beard reaching to his knees,& looked at me with his beautiful,kind,loving,faithful eyes,& he said to me with a smile: I will give you one minute to decide,my child—but,no more than one minute.

If Feitel's Jewish brains could not solve the problems, certainly Fedoka's peasant brains could not. First of all his mother took hold of him by the flaxen hair,& pulled it. Then she gave him a few good smacks in the face. These he accepted like a philosopher. He was used to them. And he heard his mother talking with the peasants...

Shemak, you are called—you. Go, go! It is time. Go, go!

I get up to go. The day is dead. The sun is extinguished. Its gold beams have turned to blood. A little wind blows—a soft, cold wind. Busie tells me to go. I throw a last glance at her. She is not the same Busie. In my eyes she is different, on this bewitching evening. The enchanted princess runs in my head.

We boys know everything. There is a boy at school. Sheika the blind one, we call him. He is blind of one eye. He knows everything in the world, even 'Kaballa.' Do you know what 'Kaballa' is?

No. How am I to know?

I am in the seventh heaven because I can give her a lecture on "Kaballa."

"Kaballa,' little fool, is a thing that is useful.

Busie is a name; it is the short for Esther-Liba: Libusa: Busie. She is a year older than I, perhaps two years. And both of us together are no more than twenty years old. Now, if you please, sit down and think it out for yourself. How old am I, and how old is she? But, it is no matter. I will rather tell you her history in a few words.

Really good to read after watching Fiddled on the Roof. Fudge is Solem's creation. What a great recorder of Jewish culture, so glad we have his writings!