The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, June 26, 1904, Page 3

- THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY GALL. and come to the dining-room,” said Mr. Takiff to me as I came in. T found Malke, who had remained in oom all day, lying on her bed with ed in the pillows. -When I sage she answered me I me in soon.’ few minutes she entered the down® quietly, n. Her mot and q pray y dropped -book before love and to with wished hot and could ached Malk 1 silence Takiff ssing Mr. and man Shmunke before me in all his ta figure with head 4 ed over his chest, looked bending the His e bec rew Menke flower stooping r curls that re & a had ofrtainly : He vore coat t al- the floor, and an octagonal- ped hat with a long visor that rshadowed his greenish eyes sut Shabbos,” he bashfully stam- M Takif his wifl m m white to I had a this in- not clearl an’s sharpness i estioned and the nderful ration was was ec son-in-law of pis future the battlefield The chosen p ge a word with his b ' e T noticed him gh the corner «f his eve girl, but he s as soon as s p nd miserable I sneaked in order t a K all of the next he forest om pretense of feeling I hated the whole world—Mr. ¢ Talmudic fo! not cha: k house, . Malke be ng the k sad and pale a ble cr even show s s ony. When bro- lishes came ratt st celebrat the s rdan: t exchange a night, either led r an and hasa n his nt of Talmudic a Z quizzing him a5d f them Shmunke apidity. an Tlui another, ach in great CHAPTER XXIV. FATHER AGAINST CHILD, d T ly, bringing the Her feelings but she and even day set . to me, o any one, no further than to un the Jewish 1 were all loitering at we had finished dinn k notice of the silent d daughter. “What a he asked gravely. that your choson sccoth (the feast and that the wedding is not as very, very e after Mr. Takiff te been sitting with her hand, made no her lip and tightened her reply admonished his guessed how sore 18 on you are!” said ently to his wife you fference to her choson, Why do you look nightmare?” he de- . irritated by her si- oice Malke's lips tightened again, her b blec then a flood of tears from her yes, And tugging ket she faltered in ] not—marry—that— re like a spark in a ( jumping ' to his cried eet. “What! you don't want to marry s Illui, this great and wonderful jus! He stupid!” His voice rose to shriek in his excitement. “Do you mean to instruct me to whom I shall arry you? Do you? Do you pef- wish to marry a gentile—hey Nosen! Nosen!” implored Sarah. Takiff did not heed his wife's ap- “Whom do you wish to marry, Ha! ha! ha!™ he laughed bit- “She don’t want the Illut whom jults In rendering deci- Mr bbi_Brill o cions. Who ever heard of a Jewish girl bjecting to her father's choice? Merey, are we coming to? You perhaps like to have one,” he continued arcastically, and whole frame quivered with anger, “who writes, and s a cigar on Shabbos, and who horseback on the holy rest- tznuah (virtuous e) wishes to marry. Heavens! Would { my ears were deaf to such open blxsphemy from the mouth of my own flesh and blood., The Nui or the grave As he shouted this last he bropght his fist down upon the table “Nosen! Nosen!" cried his wife again, with such force that the dishes danced. rising and taking his arm. « But he threw off Ler hand and paced up and down the floor, gazing wrath- fully at Malke, who sat weeping with her head upon the table. Then he re- mained standing in the middle of the room for a minute or two with both hands at his tempies, as if a dreadful thought had flashed through his brain, rides on -—such a one m; and suddenly rushed out of the room and slammed the door after him. CHAPTER XXV. YOM KIPPUR.” The family stormg abated after this fierce outburst. Mr. Takiff, who was a very devoted father, had simply lost control of himself for the instant. He all kindness. Of course, it never for an instant occurred to him to vield to Malke's desire; but he began to try to reconcile her to the coming marriage by reciting the great virtues and ability of her choson, and by drawing pictures of the happiness and new the honor that the Illui would bring her. Malke scarcely replied to his per- suasions—a silence which her father mistook for tacit acquiescence. We had planned to spend the Day of Atonement in Gonsmar, a town seven versts distant, where the family al- ways went to worship, as there was no eygagogue in Dubrovka. On the mornisg before the Day of Atonement, Mr. Takiff, Mrs. Takiff and even little Jacob rose early, beaming with happ for just as the following day ed to earnest prayer and self- al, this day is one of festivity and rejoicing. It is incumbent upon every ring Israelite to feast and k the great Creator a hundred and one times. And in order to fulfill this ommandment, Mr. Takiff took a bite of various kinds of fruit and offered a blessing each time. Despite the general happiness, Malke looked so sad and ill that her mother suggested it would be wise for her to at home if she would not fesl me. Malke expressed her prefer- to remain, and it was so settled. At dinner we dipped our bread in honey—this being a symbolic prayer t the coming year may be as sweet as the bread we ate. After dinner we prepared to start for Gonsmar. Mr. Takiff, who made a grand appearance in his long, black holiday coat, called together his serfants and gave them orders not to sell or execute any trans- action the next day. Suddenly Mrs. Takiff began to weep, crying that she feared to leave Malke benind. But her husband laughed at her forebodings, d said if X alke wished to remain at home she might remain. Malke threw her arms about her mother and kissed her again and again, and embraced and kissed her father, her warm tears trickling down his white beard. He kissed her and blessed her in the old Hebreéw fashion. She did not speak a word, but I could see that her tears almost stifled her. “I shall pray for you to-morrowd"” her father said, as he stood upon the threshold of the house, “and you should also pray for us.” Malke wiped her eyes but did not venture upon an answer. After we had left the house Sarah went back to kiss her once more. As we rolled away in the carriage 1 glanced back at Malke. My heart al- most broke at sight of her, standing on the porch, her hands clasped before her, her face streaming with tears. Another instant and the thick forest had shut her from my view. But the picture of her weeping in the doorway, with interlocked hands, was still vivid before me—as it is even mow when- ever I think of :er. On arriving at Gonsmar we left our carriage at an inn saand at once re- paired to the synagogue. The yard about the house of worship was crowded with people. Immediately be- fore the entrance of the synagogue there stood a long table on which plates were placed marked “Hospital,” “Orphan Asylum,” “Hakhnoses-Kalo” (to bring poor maidens into wedlock), and with the names of the varjous other charities of the communjty. Be- fore each plate sat some prominent member of the congregation. Mr. Takiff stopped before the long table, bade them all “Gut yomtov,” apd droped five rubles in one plate, ten in another, three in another. until he had contributed to every one of them. The passage from the table to the door was blocked by scores of wretched cripples, orphans and widows, who begged in most pitiful luues.’As every well-to-do man entered the synagogue yard he was surrounded by these poor creatures, who perhaps had been wait- ing all the year for this charitable sea- son, and who implored, in the name of their hungry wives, mothers and chil- dren, that they be helped with a few copecks. The experience of ali was our experi- ence. Dozens of hands were stretched cut for alms as we came up to the syn- agogue door. “May you live a thou- sand years, good Jew! Have pity on a poor cripple,” jumped up one with a wooden leg. “’Oh, eternal health to you and your wife and your children, Mr. Takiff. Give something to a poor widow with nine children,” a ha d woman pulled Mr. Takiff by his sleeve. “May you live to see great-great- grandchildren; have mercy on a poor orphan who has a mother lying sick in bed,” pleaded a ragged boy. “Oh, pray, give me something. Good life and health to you! I have eleven children, and my husband lies K in bed with a broken leg,” entreated a woman with a babe at her breast. In response to all these pleas Mr. Takiff drew a bagful of silver coins from upder his long coat and distributed its contents to the mis- erable alms-seekers. That done, we en- tered the synagogue. The large building was filled to its very doors with pious worshipers, some of whom read from books and cried softly; others shook their bodies vio- lently and shouted in most agonizing despair; and still others wept and moaned and beat their breasts as if they meant to strike them through and through. They were all robed in white shrouds, over which were thrown loose- ly white and black praying-shawls. Hundreds of wax candles, stuck in a large box of sand, burned before the al- tar, and hundreds of them flickered in the deep recesses of the windows. Some belated people faces were pulling off their boots and unfolding their shrouds; many re- mained at the door shaking hands and asking forglveness of one another, and with tears in their eyes expressing re- grei for the past; here and there others with penitent happily extended wishes of a “good seal” to their neighbors. For on the Day of Atonement all must be friends. “Sins between man ard his Maker are forgiven on Yom Kippur,” laid down the Talmudic sages, “but sins of one man against another are not atoned for until the wrongdoer asks forgiveness from the person wronged.” The t'philo zako (the pure prayer) had already besun when we arrived. 1 also opened a prayer-bcok and mur- mured the pure prayer, but my mind traveled back to Malke with her bowed head and clasped hands. A resounding clap on the big hollow table at the altar suddenly silenced all noises. Only the irrepressibie sob of a bitter heart or the broken weeping of women from the gallery disturbed the quictude. All rose with faces pplifted. The silence grew deeper; nothing but the soft tread of shoeless feet was heard; these were the footsteps of the seven white-bearded elders of the c.fin- gregation. The snow-white curtain overhanging the oren-kodesh was drawn aside; the portals were opened. At sight of tixis there came a look of awe in every vountenance. Each of the elders took out a”scroll of the Tcrah, kissed it, and holding it to his breast marched to the altar, where the seven formed a ring. Breathing almost stopped—it was a moment too reveren- tial for tears, too solemn for prayer. The choir waited for the sexton’s sig- nal; the sexton waited for a motion from the rabbi. At length the signal came. The leader of the choir gave a faint cough to clear his throat, and in a tremulous minor key began the quaint, traditional, melodlous Kol-Nidro. The voices of the choir rcse and fell, swelled and narrowed, all in the sad- dest- of tones, and the congregation groaned and moaned and wept. The hymn was repeated three times, and after each time an amen was intoned that sounded like the sudden bursting of a dam. Unconsciously tears gathered in my eyes. I bowed my head, and there came upon me a burning realization of the meaning of this period of self- denial—this day which hasgbeen eter- nized in Jewish memory by fire and blood; the day which cost the down- trodden Israelite the lives of his inno- cent babes and guiltless sons and daughters; the day on which the eter- nal wanderer recalls with horror the sufferings of his people in the time of theCrusaders; the day on which the persecuted Ghetto Jew is reminded that for maintaining an ideal and belief he is penned up in filthy quarters, and his life and soul are crushed out of him; the day on which the scapegoat prays for less cruelty and barbarism in the new year from the hands of the preachers of peace and love and chari- ty—the Day of Atonement! That day gives the unhappy race strength and forbearance to endure the blows and derision from their neighbors who smite the right cheek, then the left. That day has made the Jews a race of mar- tyrs. At the close of the service I went to the inn. Mr. Takiff and many of the < Toe Jamssff, Goslop opened by one who had paid dear for the honor. The congregation stood up with evident fear, and remained on their feet during this service, which lasted over an hour. Like warriors fighting the last battle they prayed and wept and struck their breasts with their last bit of energy. From the women's gallery came a wailing and sobbing that encouraged the men tc augment their own. The hour was sacred, fearful, awe-inspiring. Finally neilla was over. The last amen resounded in the dusky syna- gogue like a deep sigh of relief. There was hope in ry countenance. A faint smile—the smile of victory— brightened meny faces at the forcible ev slap of the sexton’s hand upon the table. “Next year in Jerusalem!” pro- claimed the whole congregation in one uproarious voice; then came seven times “God is our Lord” in a trium- phant shout; and then came the finale —the long-drawn call of the ram's horn. CHAPTER XXVI A TRAGEDY WITHOUT BLOOD- SHED. We found a carriage waiting, and without stopping to break the fast in town we started for home. The coach- man cracked his whip fiercely and set the horses at full speed. Mrs. Takiff was anxious about her daughter, and asked the driver, who had been in the innkeeper's house for fifteen years, how he had left Malke. “All right,” he muttered; and he snapped his whip viciously at the horses’ ears and cursed them for their slowne: I wondered at this, for I knew Nikolai loved the horses better than his wife. Even yhen the horses were galloping at breakneck speed Nikolai did not stop his curses. “You're in a bad humor to-nigpt, Ni- Ny = P - A REA FEnminG THE CARMENT AS A . Swex of Hovsnins congregation remained in the syna- gogue all night, reciting prayers and chanting hymns.. When I returned the next morning they were still praying and crying and beating their breasts. The reeky smell of socks mingled with the foul odor of hundreds of smoking tallow and wax candles. Mr. Takiff's candle, which stood in the recess of the window nearest him, was already ex- tinguished, and a long piece of burned wick fell over ore side, where the wa had melted away. He regarded this as a bad omen and was perturbed. Mrs. Takiff extended her head from the wo- men's gallery and gazed at the extin- guished candle with a frightened ex- pression on her face. s The day slowly advanced. The effect of the fast was impressed upon every face. Only the little boys who had not reached the fasting age looked happy, munching legs and gizzards of chicken and making guesses and bets as to what candles would burn out the soon- est. The boys who had just treached the fasting age cf 13 sat exhausted in the hay that littered the floor. Their faces were haggard, without a shade of the color of life in them; their eyes opened and closed wearily; and the “smelling-vials” went up to their noses automatically. Happily neilla (the last prayer at sunset) came. It is the holy of holies, It is the last chance, so to speak, to in- voke the King of Kings to “impress a good seal upon the decrees.” Tired out as the worshipers were by this time, they girded their loins to make the last appeal. The doors of the ark were kolai,” Mr. Takiff reproved the ccach- man; but the latter paid no attention to his master and emptied another. vol- ley of curses. After an hour of this rapid pace we drew up before the long house. No light was seen through the windows, and Malke was.not on the porch to meet us. The driver jumped off quick- 1y, opened the gate, and drove into the yard. Not even a servant came to re- ceive us. We entered the large dining- room. Still not a soul appeared. “Where is Malke? Where is every- body ?” shouted Mr. Takiff. Tekla, the muzhik maid-servant, and Andrew, who took care of the cattle, entered with hanging heads. “Where is Malke? Where is my daughter?” Nosen demanded in a threatening volice. They did not answer, but stood with eyes - downcast, alternately wringing their hands and making the sign of the cross. “Muzhik, swine, you dogs’ hides, rob- bers, where's my daughter?” burst out the desperate father wildly. “Give me my daughter!” He caught Andrew by the hair and shook him, during which jerking the muzhik frantically crossed his breast. “Panotchic moi (my little master),” faltered the peasant, “you know Count Losjinki—" “You horse’s head,” his master in- terrupted him, stamping his feet madly, “where is my Malke? I don’t care about the Count, you pig's snout!"” “Pan Notka (Master Nosen),” the servant began again, “the Count was 3 here this morning and stayed here sev- eral hours, and I saw him walking away with Malke. “Confound you, pig's snout! Did you see my daughter going away with the » Pan Notka, but—" er lost control of himsclf the muzhik by his ears. my daughter? Tell me quick and shook flerce that he could not s ence. His wife dropped upen a sofa and sobbed. Little Yankele (Jacob), frightered by the frenzy of his father and the grief of his mother, broke into wails. I stood in the middle of the raom, stiff and cold. “T saw Pame Malke walking toward the forest about half an houg after the Count had left,” stammiered the trem- bling Andrew. “Harne the two best horses in the light vehicle, NiKolai,” shouted the master. * d I will look in the woods."” I realized the folly of searching in the woods for Malke, for I divined the cause of her disappearanc But I made no objection, and accompanied the agitated father to the forest. The es galloped as fast as they coul kolall at the command of his maste whipped them mercilessly. On the way Mr. Takiff did not utter a werd, enly preesed his temples with his hands and groaned, When we reached the path that cut through the forest Mr. Takiff alighted and asked me to walk with him through the thick woods. We tramped over stumps and fallen trees and through the thick underbrush. Every- thing was quiet except the autumn wind that whistled painfully and the sound of our footsteps. “Malke! Malke!” shouted the unhap- Py father distractedly. Nothing but a hollow echo came in response. Once there was a noise which sounded like the cracking of dry twigs under foot. We stopped and li tened with held breath. But it was only the hissing of the wind. At the other end of the woods Nikolal was waiting fc with a carriage. “To Count Losjins ordered the mas- ter as we stepped into the vehicle. In about an hour we reached the® Count’s palace. No light was to be seen at any of the windows. Mr. Takiff pulled the bell fiercely. No one came to the door. He rang again impatiently and again and again, but he only got the same silent answer that he received when he caled for his daughter in the heart of the forest. We remained standing on the steps of the palace while minute after minute passed, Mr. Takiff with his head hang- ing over his chest Presently we started home; there was nothing else for us to do. On our way we accosted every peasant we met with questions, but learned nothing. At length we came to a small inn kept by a Jew, and here we stopped in the hope of obtaining some clew. We found a shriveled, black-haired, black-eyed little man seated at a tabie, with his wife and three little children by his side, eating their first meal after the long fast. A few muzhiks sat at another table in the same room, smoking their stinking makhorka (a poor quality of tobaccer and washing their throats with delicious vodka. “How do you do, Pan Notka?" sald one of the muzhiks, with long, flaxen hair, a sharp little nose, and small, shiny eyes peeping from under a nar- row, projecting forehead. “You're highly promoted, Pan Notka,” he went on jestingly, before any one else could speak. “l saw Malke driving with the Count in a carriage to-day,” and he winked at his companions. Mr. Takiff fejl back and stood quiver. ing for a minute. Then he partially controlled himself, and besought the peasant to teil him all he knew about his daughter. “Pray, Danila, where have you seen my daughter with the Count? Have mercy on an old father,” the old man implored, with tears rolling down his soft, white face. Sympathy for his grief could be read in every countenance; even Danila ap- peared more earnest at thege words. “Well, Pan Notka, T'll tell you all T know,” said the peasant, putting his pipe aside. “You know, my oat-fleld lies right by the forest, and you know, Pan Notka, this year we had a poor harvest. At first there was no rain at all, then there was too much rain. You remember the hail that broke the win- dow-panes of your hothouse? So my oatfield in the skirts of the Count's for- est was very poor, and I could not gather my oats until last week. This morning. ~“an Notka, I went to gather the last few sheaves I had there, when, about two o’'clock in the afternoom, I noticed the Count Leosjinskl with your daughter coming toward my fleld. And the Count was very good and kind to- day. He asked me about my, harvest and about the vegetables. Coming home I told my wife there must be something wrong with the Count, to talk to me as if he were one of our set. First the Count waited in the forest, walking up and down and whistling, then I saw your daughter coming. She was .wrapped in a large black shawl and carried a reticule. I wondered at first where she was going on the great- est of your holidays, but I said nothing, because the Count ran to receive her and embraced and kissed her. I won- dered and wondered, but I could not understand it. Then the Count whis- tled very loud, and his carriage came from the woods. They got in and drove off as quick the devil. In fact, I couldn’t believe my own eyes, and s I toid my wife, but, says I to myself: ‘Don’t I know Malke, Pan Notka's daughter?” My wife laughed right out in my face; and said the devil must have played a nice trick on me, and I thought my Marianna was right, and it must have been some ghost or devil, or the evil spirits know what.” This story the peasant told in the usual ' digressive peasant’s style, and finished by spitting on the floor unspar- ingly before returning to his pipe. The little innkeeper and his bewigged wife shook their heads and moaned: “Woe is to us! woe is to us!” But Mr. Takiff said nothing; he stood dumb, staring idiotically. And we immediately left the inn. About an hour later we arrived at home. We found Mrs. Takiff lying in bed, and an old peasant woman, who was the physician of the village, at- tending ker. Little Yankele was sleep- ing in his clothes, crouched on two chairs in the dining-room. Mrs. Takiff pointed to an open letter that lay o~ the table. It ran thus: “MY BELOVED FATHER _AND MOTHER—I go with the Count. T real- ize the pain and shame. I am causing you. I know you will never forgive me it is useless to justify myself to you. he thought that I shall never see you again makes me dizzy. How my blood is