Fairy Tales

6 Danish statesman Peder Schumacher, count Griffenfeldt (1635-1699), was imprisoned in Copenhagen and at Munkholm in the Trondheim fjord.

THE JEWISH MAID

IN THE PAUPER’S SCHOOL there sat among the other little children a little Jewish girl, so attentive and good, the cleverest of them all. She couldn’t participate in one of the subjects though—religion. She was in a Christian school, after all.

She was allowed to read in the geography book to herself, or she could finish her math assignment, but that was soon finished and the lesson done. There was a book lying open in front of her, but she didn’t read it. She sat and listened, and soon the teacher noticed that she kept up with the lesson like few of the others.

“Read your book,” he said gently and gravely, but she looked at him with her radiant black eyes, and when he asked her a question, she knew more than any of the others. She had listened, understood, and remembered.

Her father was a poor, honest man. He had stipulated when the child started school that she shouldn’t be taught the Christian faith. To have her leave the room during the religion class would perhaps confuse the other little ones, raise suggestions and sentiments, so she remained there. But this couldn’t continue any longer.

The teacher went to her father and told him that either he would have to remove his daughter from the school, or let her become a Christian. “I can’t endure to see those burning eyes, the fervor and her soul thirsting after the word of the gospel,” said the teacher.

And the father burst into tears. “I don’t know much about our own religion myself, but her mother was a daughter of Israel, firm and strong in her faith. I promised her on her deathbed that the child would never become a baptized Christian. I must keep my promise because it’s like a pact with God for me.”

And the little Jewish girl was removed from the Christian school, and years passed.

In a humble, middle-class house in one of Jutland’s smallest towns there was a poor maid of the Jewish community. It was Sara. Her hair was as black as ebony, her eyes as dark and yet full of brilliance and light as a daughter of the Orient. The expression of the fully grown girl was still the same as in the child when she sat on the school bench and listened with her thoughtful gaze.

Every Sunday the organ music and songs of the congregation could be heard through the street and into the house opposite where the Jewish maid was doing her work, diligent and dutiful in her vocation. “Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy ” was her law, but the Sabbath for her was a Christian workday, and she could only keep it holy in her heart, which she didn’t believe was enough. But what are the days and hours to God? That thought had awakened in her soul, and on the Christian Sunday the hour of devotion was less disturbed. When the sound of the organ and the hymns reached her in the kitchen by the sink, then even this place became holy and still. She read the Old Testament then, her people’s treasure and property, but only this because what her father had told her and the teacher when she was taken out of the school was ingrained in her mind—the promise that was given her dying mother that Sara should not become Christian, not abandon the faith of her fathers. The New Testament was and would remain a closed book for her, and yet she knew so much about it. It shone in her childhood memories.

One evening she sat in a corner of the living room, listening to her master reading aloud, and she felt she could listen to that since it was not the gospels. He was reading from an old history book. She could surely listen to that. It was about a Hungarian knight who was captured by a Turkish Pasha, who had him tied with the oxen to the plow. He was whipped and suffered from unending mockery and thirst.

The knight’s wife sold all her jewelry and mortgaged the castle and land. His friends gathered together the large sums, unbelievably large amounts, that were demanded for ransom, but they did it, and he was released from slavery and disgrace. Sick and suffering he arrived home. But soon there was a general call-to-arms against the enemies of Christianity. The sick man heard about it and could not rest until he was lifted onto his war horse again. The color came back to his cheeks, and he rode away to victory. The very Pasha who had hitched him to the plow, mocked and tormented him, became his captive and was brought home to his castle dungeon. But in the very first hour the knight came and asked his captive:

“What do you think will happen to you?”

“I know what will happen!” said the Turk. “Reprisal!”

“Yes, Christian reprisal,” said the knight. “Christianity commands us to forgive our enemies and love our neighbors. God is love! Go in peace to your home and loved ones. Become gentle and good towards those who are suffering.”

Then the prisoner burst into tears. “How could I have imagined that this would be possible? Since I was certain of pain and torture, I took a poison that will kill me within a few hours. I must die; there’s no antidote. But before I die, preach to me the teachings that hold such love and mercy, for it is great and divine! Let me die in that faith, die as a Christian!” and his prayer was answered.

That was the legend; the story that was read. Everyone listened to it and followed along attentively, but none more intensely than she who was sitting in the corner, the servant girl Sara, the Jewish maid. It came alive for her. Large, heavy tears filled the shining, coal-black eyes. She sat there in her childhood innocence, as she had once sat on the school bench and felt the greatness of the Gospels. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

“Don’t let my child become a Christian!” were her mother’s last words on her deathbed. They rang through her soul and heart along with the words of the commandment: “Honor thy Father and thy Mother.”

“I am not a Christian! They call me the Jewish maid. The neighborhood boys called me that with derision last Sunday when I was standing outside the open church door looking at the altar candles that were burning, and the congregation was singing. From my school days I have felt a power in Christianity that is like sunshine, and even if I shut my eyes against its light, it still shines right into my heart. But, mother, I will not grieve you in your grave! I will not betray the promise that father gave you! I will not read the Christian Bible. I have the God of my fathers to lean on!”

—And years passed.

The master died, and the mistress was in poor circumstances. She would have to do without the maid, but Sara didn’t leave. She was a friend in need and held everything together. She worked until late at night and supported them with the work of her hands. There were no close relatives to take care of the family, and every day the mistress became weaker and was sick in bed for months. Sara watched over her, nursed her, and worked, gentle and good, a blessing in the poverty-stricken house.