Children of the Ghetto

grace after meals. Look at the Crypto-Jews, the Marranos, who for centuries lived a double life, outwardly Christians, but handing down secretly from generation to generation the faith, the traditions, the observances of Judaism.'

'Yes, no Jew was ever fool enough to turn Christian unless he was a clever man,' said the poet paradoxically. 'Have you not, my sweet, innocent young lady, heard the story of the two Jews in Burgos Cathedral?'

'No, what is it?' said Levi, eagerly.

'Well, pass my cup up to your highly superior mother who is waiting to fill it with coffee. Your eminent father knows the story-I can see by the twinkle in his learned eye.'

'Yes, that story has a beard,' said the Reb.

'Two Spanish Jews,' said the poet, addressing himself deferentially to Levi, 'who had got grace were waiting to be baptized at Burgos Cathedral. There was a great throng of Catholics and a special Cardinal was coming to conduct the ceremony, for their conversion was a great triumph. But the Cardinal was late and the Jews fumed and fretted at the delay. The shadows of evening were falling on vault and transept. At last one turned to the other and said, 'Knowest them what, Moses? If the Holy Father does not arrive soon, we shall be too late to say mincha.'

Levi laughed heartily; the reference to the Jewish afternoon prayer went home to him.

'That story sums up in a nutshell the whole history of the great movement for the conversion of the Jews. We dip ourselves in baptismal water and wipe ourselves with a Talith. We are not a race to be lured out of the fixed feelings of countless centuries by the empty spirituality of a religion in which, as I soon found out when I lived among the soul-dealers, its very professors no longer believe. We are too fond of solid things,' said the poet, upon whom a good breakfast was beginning to produce a soothing materialistic effect. 'Do you know that anecdote about the two Jews in the Transvaal?' Pinchas went on. 'That's a real Chine.'

'I don't think I know that Maaseh,' said Reb Shemuel.

'Oh, the two Jews had made a trek and were travelling onwards exploring unknown country. One night they were sitting by their campfire playing cards when suddenly one threw up his cards, tore his hair and beat his breast in terrible agony. 'What's the matter?' cried the other. 'Woe, woe,' said the first. 'To-day was the Day of Atonement! and we have eaten and gone on as usual.' 'Oh, don't take on so,' said his friend. 'After all, Heaven will take into consideration that we lost count of the Jewish calendar and didn't mean to be so wicked. And we can make up for it by fasting to-morrow.'

''Oh, no! Not for me,' said the first. 'To-day was the Day of Atonement.''

All laughed, the Reb appreciating most keenly the sly dig at his race. He had a kindly sense of human frailty. Jews are very fond of telling stories against themselves-for their sense of humor is too strong not to be aware of their own foibles-but they tell them with closed doors, and resent them from the outside. They chastise themselves because they love themselves, as members of the same family insult one another. The secret is, that insiders understand the limitations of the criticism, which outsiders are apt to take in bulk. No race in the world possesses a richer anecdotal lore than the Jews-such pawky, even blasphemous humor, not understandable of the heathen, and to a suspicious mind Pinchas's overflowing cornucopia of such would have suggested a prior period of Continental wandering from town to town, like the Minnesingers of the middle ages, repaying the hospitality of his Jewish entertainers with a budget of good stories and gossip from the scenes of his pilgrimages.

'Do you know the story?' he went on, encouraged by Simcha's smiling face, 'of the old Reb and the Havdolah? His wife left town for a few days and when she returned the Reb took out a bottle of wine, poured some into the consecration cup and began to recite the blessing. 'What art thou doing?' demanded his wife in amaze.' I am making Havdolah,' replied the Reb. 'But it is not the conclusion of a festival to-night,' she said. 'Oh, yes, it is,' he answered. 'My Festival's over. You've come back.''

The Reb laughed so much over this story that Simcha's brow grew as the solid Egyptian darkness, and Pinchas perceived he had made a mistake.

'But listen to the end,' he said with a creditable impromptu. 'The wife said-'No, you're mistaken. Your Festival's only beginning. You get no supper. It's the commencement of the Day of Atonement.''

Simcha's brow cleared and the Reb laughed heartily.

'But I don't seethe point, father,' said Levi.

'Point! Listen, my son. First of all he was to have a Day of Atonement, beginning with no supper, for his sin of rudeness to his faithful wife. Secondly, dost thou not know that with us the Day of Atonement is called a festival, because we rejoice at the Creator's goodness in giving us the privilege of fasting? That's it, Pinchas, isn't it?'

'Yes, that's the point of the story, and I think the Rebbitzin had the best of it, eh?'

'Rebbitzins always have the last word,' said the Reb. 'But did I tell you the story of the woman who asked me a question the other day? She brought me a fowl in the morning and said that in cutting open the gizzard she had found a rusty pin which the fowl must have swallowed. She wanted to know whether the fowl might be eaten. It was a very difficult point, for how could you tell whether the pin had in any way contributed to the fowl's death? I searched the Shass and a heap of Shaalotku-Tshuvos. I went and consulted the Maggid and Sugarman the Shadchan and Mr. Karlkammer, and at last we decided that the fowl was tripha and could not be eaten. So the same evening I sent for the woman, and when I told her of our decision she burst into tears and wrung her hands. 'Do not grieve so,' I said, taking compassion upon her, 'I will buy thee another fowl.' But she wept on, uncomforted. 'O woe! woe!' she cried. 'We ate it all up yesterday.''

Pinchas was convulsed with laughter. Recovering himself, he lit his half-smoked cigar without asking leave.

'I thought it would turn out differently,' he said. 'Like that story of the peacock. A man had one presented to him, and as this is such rare diet he went to the Reb to ask if it was kosher. The Rabbi said 'no' and confiscated the peacock. Later on the man heard that the Rabbi had given a banquet at which his peacock was the crowning dish. He went to his Rabbi and reproached him. 'I may eat it,' replied the Rabbi, 'because my father considers it permitted and we may always go by what some eminent Son of the Law decides. But you unfortunately came to me for an opinion, and the permissibility of peacock is a point on which I have always disagreed with my father.''

Hannah seemed to find peculiar enjoyment in the story.

'Anyhow,' concluded Pinchas, 'you have a more pious flock than the Rabbi of my native place, who, one day, announced to his congregation that he was going to resign. Startled, they sent to him a delegate, who asked, in the name of the congregation, why he was leaving them. 'Because,' answered the Rabbi, 'this is the first question any one has ever asked me!''

'Tell Mr. Pinchas your repartee about the donkey,' said Hannah, smiling.

'Oh, no, it's not worth while,' said the Reb.

'Thou art always so backward with thine own,' cried the Rebbitzin warmly. 'Last Purim an impudent of face sent my husband a donkey made of sugar. My husband had a Rabbi baked in gingerbread and sent it in exchange to the donor, with the inscription 'A Rabbi sends a Rabbi.''

Reb Shemuel laughed heartily, hearing this afresh at the lips of his wife. But Pinchas was bent double like a convulsive note of interrogation.

The clock on the mantelshelf began to strike nine. Levi jumped to his feet.

'I shall be late for school!' he cried, making for the door.

'Stop! stop!' shouted his father. 'Thou hast not yet said grace.'

'Oh, yes, I have, father. While you were all telling stories I was benshing quietly to myself.'

'Is Saul also among the prophets, is Levi also among the story-tellers?' murmured Pinchas to himself. Aloud he said: 'The child speaks truth; I saw his lips moving.'

Levi gave the poet a grateful look, snatched up his satchel and ran off to No. 1 Royal Street. Pinchas followed him soon, inwardly upbraiding Reb Shemuel for meanness. He had only as yet had his breakfast for his book. Perhaps it was Simcha's presence that was to blame. She was the Reb's right hand and he did not care to let her know what his left was doing.