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THE
PROPITIATORY SACRIFICE
A Sketch of the Podolian Ghetto.
From The Orman
— OF —
KABL EMU. FBAiiZOS.
CHAPTER I.
It is of a child that this story treats. Its name
was Lea, it was four years old, and had shining
black hair and large dark eyes. But these eyes
were not bright; they and the pale delicate face
of the little girl was overcast as with a veiL
She was the child of poor parents and had. but
one little dress which was very much patched—
the same for Sundays, the same for week days.
The original oolor of the brown calico could
hardly be distinguished any more.
Bn f this was not the cause of the veil. '» hat
did Lea know of poverty ? Every day she had
enough to appease her hunger; and if not quite,
at least partly enough; every day she was allow
ed to play in the sunshine as much as she pleas
ed And she had the most beautiful play-ground
that can be wished for. Large and green and
peaceful, where the countless flowers grew, and
the heavily laden branches of the lilac tree nod
ded over many, many resting places. For Lea’s
play-ground was the Jewish grave-yard at Bar-
now. . , ...
It was a peculiar sight when the serious child
wandered so quietly among the graves, or sat
on a stone, watching the frolicsome golden bee
tles creeping through the merrily sprouting
grass. Yet neither was all this the cause of the
veil. What did Lea know of death ?
Her father was dead, that she knew, and to be
dead meant to sleep and never, no never be hun
gry again. And how otherwise could the daily
sight of the graves have saddened her ?
No, it was not that, and the Jews of Barnow
lied likewise when they said: The child is
a propitiatory sacrifice—how can it have another
face? , ,
No—the touch ol suffering in the pale little
face was an inheritance. Poor Miriam Goldstein
had borne this child under a heart that was torn
by deep sorrow, well nigh ineffable grief. And
bloody tears had fallen on the face of the little
creature when it first lay in her bosom. Even
such tears dry, but they leave traces behind
them. Little Lea bore in her face traces of the
tears, that her mother had once wept thereon.
Later on when the child grew apace the
mother did not weep any more. The poor wid
ow had almost no time therefore. During the
day she was obliged to work and contrive, and
at night she sank on her bed quite exhausted.
And even if she awoke, and brooded over her
hard, wretched life, even then she did not weep.
For in the end she could still always say: ‘God
be praised! My child and I need neither beg
nor starve, God be praised ! The child is well.’
‘The child is well! ’ Miriam Goldstein, the
widow of the grave-digger of Barnow, who for
her widow’s pension received from the congre
gation, a small room rent-free, in the hut that
stood at the grave-yard gate, who washed and
sewed all day for strangers, this poor woman
did not weep, even in sleepless hours of the
night. The child was well—I ask all mothers:
Wherefore should Miriam Goldstein have wept?
Thus the days came and went. Little Lea
was four years old, and played all the summer
among the gaves, slipping silently though mer
rily beneath the lilac branches and the pieces
of linen which her mother hung up on long
ropes over the graves.
But then came the fall, and the cool damp
evenings. It was dusk early, the poor woman
did not come home until dark, and the child
waited paitently for her in the little room. It
knew that at last the familiar step must resound
without and then the door opened, the mother
cried: ‘Lea;’ and the child rushed into her out
stretched arms. The mother struck a light,
made the fire and cooked some broth for herself
and the child.
But once, on a gloomy cold September even
ing, it did not happen so. It was true, the poor
widow came home and called her child, but it
did not come to meet her.
The woman tremblingly struck a light. The
room was empty.
‘Lea,’ the mother cried again, loudly, pierc
ingly.
No answer. She let her raised hands sink as
if paralyzed. But quickly rousing herself, she
rushed into the dwelling of her neighbor, the
grave-digger who had once been her husband’s
assistant and now independently performed the
duties of that office.
‘My child, cried she, where is my child ? ’
The man and his wife looked at poor Miriam as
if she were crazy.
‘How should we know ? ’ they at last asked
hesitatingly.
‘She is gone ! Help ! ’ moaned the despairing
woman rushing out into the dark grave-yard.
The grave-digger's wife ran searching along
the high road towards the town, her husband
followed the poor woman. He knew his way
well among the mounds and stones, yet he was
unable to overtake Miriam. Like a hunted ani
mal she ran over stock and stone, now striking
against a grave-stone, anon stumbling over the
stump of some tree, but on, on, to and fro, cry
ing in her mortal fright, again and again on the
name of her child. The spot and its terrors
were familiar to the man, yet his hair bristled
with horror as in the dark night he ran over the
graves, and the woman’s agonized cries struck
again and again on his ears, Thus both ap
proached the spot where the grave-yard was
bounded by the bed of a river, the bed of the
deep and sluggishly flowing waters of the river
Sered.
‘The fence is ruinous,’ whispered the man to
himself—he dared net think out the thought.
But fate had been merciful. As the two hast
ened along the fence, Miriam with fast failing
voice still incessantly calling out her child’s
name, a thin, trembling little voice suddenly
became audible from behind a grave stone. The
little girl had run all day long until she was
tired, and had been surprised by the dark at this
remote part of the grave-yard, Here she had
sat down and soon fallen asleep. The child
hardly comprehended why her mother clasped
her so passionately to her breast, and covered
her little face with a thousand kisses and tears.
Slowly she oarried the child home to the little
house.
The grave-digger followed her; he also was
glad, yet he shook his head and muttered:
‘I would not have been in the least surprised if
we had found the child dead, or not at all. It is
said that the ‘Great Death’ is drawing on again;
they say it is already with the Turks ’
But Miriam did not hear these strange words.
She bore the child into her little room, arranged
a much softer bed for it than usual, stroked
the hair back from its forehead, and kissed it
numberless times. Then she went over to her
neighbors and thanked them—as is the manner
of women—with many words. And returning
to her little room she thanked God also. But
this she did with one long, long look to heaven.
She could not sleep; so she crouched down
beside the little bed and watched her sleeping
child. But heavens! What was that? The
poor woman’s blood turned to ice again. The
child’s face, always so pale was red with fever,
its breath came gaspingly and with a rattling
noise, its hands and feet were cold, its head
like fire.
| ‘Lea, are yon ill? cried the mother,‘speak
r my darling! ’
At the sound of the familiar voice the child
opened its eyes—they were not dull, as usual; a
strange, unearthly fire burned in them.
‘I am so cold 1' stammered the child; then it
closed its eyes again and the little hands work
ed nervously at the coverlet
•The child is dying ! ’ The poor widow did
not speak the wordB, but she felt the thought
grow gigantically over soul and body, so that
she was unable to move a limb. Suddenly how
ever she sprang up, tore the thin shawl from
her shoulders and her holiday dress from the
trunk, and covered the child with both. She
felt very cold, her teeth rattled against each
other—but what oared she for that ? She rush
ed again to her neighbors’ room, and shook
wildly at the locked door. The poor thing
wished to beg of her neighbor to come over and
see what ailed her child. For among tne Jews
of that district the grave-digger often performs
the duties of another office; he nurses the sick.
Whoever does not send for the doctor, at least
summons the grave-digger. But the man had
gone to the town to watch with a corpse, that of
the wealthy Moses Ereudenthal. His wife how
ever, compassionately accompanied the widow.
‘It is only a fever,’ she said comfortingly, ‘the
child has caught a cold. It is quite a common
fever, see, now a hot Bpell is coming on after
the oold.’
And in truth the child’s whole body was in
such a glow that its mother was obliged to re
move all covering. The women brewed some
tea from powerful herbs, but the child would
have none of it Slowly, slowly the dreadful
night passed away.
When the morning dawned the grave-digger
came back from his mournful watch. He step
ped up to the sick child’s bed and shook his
head. At his gesture the mother despairingly
wrung her hands and moaned. The man felt
pity for her.
‘It is nothing dangerous,’ he said hesitatingly,
‘the ohild will most likely get well again.’
‘Tell me the truth,’ Miriam pleaded, ‘I will
send for the doctor in any case.’
The grave-digger shrugged his shoulders.
‘The doctor is in Zaleszciski—at the Conscrip
tion. And even if he were here—no doctor can
help the child ! ’
‘Then she must die ? ’ asked Miriam in a low
voice—she was very near fainting.
‘I mean that no physician can help the child,’
slowly repeated the garve-digger, ‘only a pious
man, a Rabbi could do it The funeral of old
Freudenthal is to take place at ten o’clock. Our
Rabbi will accompany the remains to to the
grave-yard. When he is here, ask him to look
at the ohild and to bless it. He is a very pious
man, he may be enabled to save the child. Or
perhaps he can give you some advice.’
He went out to prepare a resting-place for the
new comer. His wife followed him.
‘I ought to dig two graves,’ he said as he push
ed his spade into the ground.
‘Do you mean for the child ? ’ asked his wife,
‘poor Miriam—God forbid—’
‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘it makes my heart ache.
But there is no help for it. They say that the
‘Great Death’ is drawing on again. God wishes
to spare us, and will take only the propitiatory
sacrifice we have set aside for Him.’
‘Heaven forbid ! ’ shrieked his wife, ‘and is
an innocent child to die for this reason ? ’
The man shrugged his shoulders and said:
‘Do you wish to be better than the most pious
Rabbis? More just than the great Rab Snolce,
the wonder-working Rabbi of Sadagora who has
ordered it so ? ’
The woman was silent
CHAPTER II.
What had the wonder-working Rabbi ordain
ed ! Why was the child called a propitiatory
.sacrifice? . V
In the year of disaster eighteen hundred and
thirty-one, the Lord sent a terrible destroying
angel, a hitherto unknown plague, into all
countries. It was called the Cholera. From
the far east it came with ghastly, gigan
tio tread, into the far west it penetrated,
everywhere depopulating cities and filling grave
yards. Dreadfully it hovered over the dirty,
wretched villages of the Podolian plain; count
less unfortunate victims became its prey, there
were not enough human hands to bury the dead
No remedy was of avail, no mode of life a pre
ventive. Men gave way to dull resignation, or
to wild despair. And God suffered it, and no
help came from God ! They cried out to Him,
but He heard them not!
Why! Why!
Was it not their God to whom they prayed,
the God of their fathers, the Strong, the Just,
the Eternal? Had He no ears wherewith to
hear, no arms with which to help ? Why was
He so suddenly enraged against His own people,
why did he not spare even the good and just ?
The thoughts of these unhappy people began
to grow confused. For them there was in life
but one bright spot: their faith ! They could
not understand it.
But suddenly they were filled with another
thought, dreadful, overwhelming, yet compara
tively full of comfort Was not their God a God
of Vengeance also? Was he not a wrathful God
who cruelly, inexorably punished every offence?
And if he now allowed His hand to rest so heav
ily on good and bad alike, was it not perhaps
for the reason that the bad had sinned and the
gook allowed these sins to go unpunished and
unavenged ?’
‘Let us purify ourselves ! ’ The cry passed
from mouth to mouth of the unhappy, deluded
people, scourged by grief and terror. Let us
seek out the s-in that is among us, and by pun
ishing it propitiate God’s anger.’
And they purified themselves.
The people held a court of justice, a ghastly
tribunal, which mysteriously tried, mysteri
ously judged, mysteriously punished, cruelly,
resentfully, with a power none could escape.
It had a thousand arms, a thousand eyes, and
yet was invisible and intangible, They ‘aveng
ed God’s holy name,’ and truly, at that time
many a criminal who had eluded the justice of
the state, may have met his hour of retribution.
But with how much innocent blood did these
madmen cover themselves ? In those dark days
many deeds were done at which the heart sick
ens, and the pen refuses to go on.
But the pestilence grew more and more dread
ful and malignant. And now the pitifully small
number of physicians idly folded their hands.
They were unable to mitigate, much less to
cure—
And now men also ceased to rage against each
other. The growing weight of misfortune made
them faint-hearted, nay, very cowardly. They
even dared not themselves to pray to God any
more. Another should intercede for them.
As intercessor they chose the Rabbi of Sadago
ra, a small town in Bukowina. This Rabbi, from
the many wonderful miracles, ascribed to him,
was generally known as the wonder-worker.’
He was to help and deliver them, through pray
ers to God, through holy deeds. For in the
opinion of these unfortunates, he was the man
from whose race the Messiah is to come, and it
was said that he bore on the palm of his hand,
engraved into the skin as outward token of his
divine mission, the image of a lion, the mark of
the reyal tribe of David.
Therefore they collected money and valuables,
and even poverty sacrificed its little all, with
which to present the Rabbi, and thus move him
to intercede for them to God.
The unselfish man promised his assistance.
'Ye all have offended God,’ said he, ‘ye all
must do penance.’
And he appointed days of penance. Fasting
and scourging were gone through with, punctu
ally, nay crnelly, for the fear of death watohed
over the fulfilment of the command. It sounds
incredible, yet it is literally true that during
three weeks the whole Jewish population of
those eastern districts partook of meat and
drink every alternate day only.
The consequences may easily be conceived;
such martyred and weakened bodies but fell an
easier prey to the pestilence.
The Rabbi’s reputation was at stake, equally
so the profitableness of his business.
He invented another remedy.
‘What most pleases God,’ he decreed, ‘is the
increase of His faithfal. Therefore, let each
congregation dower one or more couples, and
cause them—a sacrifice to an enraged God—to
be wedded in the grave-yaid.’
This order had various results. In some
places the assemblage of people in the grave
yards, and the abstinence at the marriage feast
but caused an increase of the plague. In other
places the crazy remedy did no harm as here
Great Death’ was already - on the wane and soon
after entirely disappeared.
The remedy however was not forgotton. And
when the year eighteen hundred and forty-eight
came with all its exultant cries of liberty and its
manifold griefs, then the ‘Great Death’ again
crept through the steppes of the East and the
terrified people had recourse to the strange rem
edy. Everywhere such ghastly marriages were
solemnized.
In Barnow also there was such a wedding.
The pair that was here chosen—without mutual
liking, by the will of the congregation—was en
dowed with a scanty portion and wedded among
freshly made graves. Nathan Goldstein, the
grave-digger, and Miriam Blum, the destitute
orphan who had been a maid in the house of
the Rabbi, saw each other plainly for the fiist
time when they were standing under the wed
ding canopy.
However, the wedding which was consumated
so suddenly, amid such horrible surroundings
and for such a mornful purpose, proved very
peaceful and happy. 70.-5 laborer and the maid
—who knew better than those how to appreciate
the value of an independsnt home?
Thus Nathan and Miriam lived happily togeth
er, and two children were born to them. Their
first great grief came when these two died, sud
denly and within a short time of each other.
That was in the year 1859. But God granted
them kind reparation: in the spring of the same
year Miriam was again a mother.
Yet when the summer of that year settled
down in the land, then the terrible destroying
angel came striding again from the east, and
again he held a fearful tribunal over the defence
less Jewish villages in the great and gloomy
Podolian plain.
Barnow was spared. Here but a single victim
fell, Nathan the grave-digger. The widow’s
grief was unbounded, but the congregation re
joiced at it’s fortunate escape from the disease,
and when the latter had died out in other parts
of the country, sent a deputation with thanks
and presents to Sadagora, to the son of the ‘Won
der-worker,’ who inherited his father’s busi
ness.
The Rabbi graciously accepted the presents
and thanks, and when the deputation reported
the solitary death, he said:
‘Your actions were pleasing in the sight of
God, therefore when yon made the sacrifice to
him eleven years ago He removed the plague
from among you. But the two for whom you
provided so kindly were not pleasing to him.
Therefore he caused the children to die, and
then—as a propitiatory sacrifice for you all—
the husband. And if tue wife have a child
again, then this child will live only that it may
once be a propitiary sacrifice for you all.'
Thus spake the Rabbi—for the widow of a
grave-digger can give v
• The deputation-retry., §*3*uome and spread
the Rabbi’s words among the people.
Miriam also heard them, and wept tears of
blood thereat. But she had not much time to
weep—she was obliged to work so as to keep
herself and child from starvation.
Thus the years passed away and the autumn,
the gloomy autumn of ‘03 set in. The Poles had
wrisen against the great nation of the east, and
a dicmal rumor ran through the land that the
terrible brother and companion of war, was
again aroused.
And therefore the grave-digger believed that
the poor ‘propitiatory sacrifice,’ the little Lea,
could not be saved.
CHAPTER IL
The funeral of old Moses Freudenthal was
over. He was a very old man, and a very soli
tary one; there was not much grief at his grave,
and.the few followers who had come thus far
speedily dispersed. The old Rabbi of the vil
lage turned to go.
The widow had humbly waited at a distance
for this moment. She now stepped in the Rab
bi’s way and begged him to see her child. She
did not say many words but there was a plead
ing look in her eyes, which involuntarily touch
ed the old man’s heart. Yet still, he hesitated
for a moment This woman was an eye-sore to
him—was she not displeasing in God’s sight?
And then the child, the ‘propitiatory sacrifice!’
Yet he entered the house and the little room.
He bent down over the child’s bed and looked
at it long and earnestly.
When he rose again his countenance was stern
and hard-set.
In mortal agony the mother waited for his
sentence. But the old man was silent and pre
pared to go.
‘Will you not bless the child ?’ asked the wo
man.
‘The child does not need a blessing,’ answer-
the Rabbi in a dull voice, ‘and then, I cannot
do it; it would be interfering with the Almighty.’
With a scream the mother rushed to the bed,
and clasped the feverish, unconcions child in
her arms, as if to shield it from every stranger
hand, even that of God.
Then she asked wildly:
‘Why Rabbi? Why?’
The old man looked gloomily at her, then as
if in confusion his eyes sought the floor.
‘You know,’ said he hesitatingly, ‘why you
wedded to your husband. You know why he
died, and what were consequences of his death.
You know what the great Rabbi Sadagora said
of you and your child. And now the ‘Great
Death’ is drawing on again.’
The woman understood him.
‘Ah !’ she ejaculated. It was a shrill, indes
cribable cry of grief and rage. With glowing
eyes and flaming face she slowly rose from the
bed until she stood ereot before the Rabbi. And
thus eye to eye, she flung the words at him:
‘You lie, Rabbi! you lie! My child will not
die! God is wise, kind, just; not so you and all
the rest of them ! You desire to be just, and
yet can demand that an innocent ohild should
atone for you sins ? You want to be kind, and
yet wish that your neighbor should die ? You
pretend to be wise, and yet can believe that God
will permit such a thing; our kind, just, and all-
powerful God ?’
She put up her hands wildly to her head,
staggered, and sank to the floor unconcions.
‘May God decide between us,’ muttered the
old man, as he left the room.
A day and a night had passed, and it seemed
that God would soon decide between the woman
and the Rabbi. It seemed as though he would
decide for the ‘Wonder-worker’and for the hard,
foolish people.
When the morning of the second day dawned
and the night-lamp swayed to and fro in the
uhill, early breeze whioh penetrated through
every crevice, then the young life flickered like
a dying oandle in the ioy breath ot winter.
The mother did not weep any more. The
softening fount of tears was dry. Deepest grief
is tearless. Only now and then, when fever
chills shook the child’s frail form, she moaned
in a low voice.
Thus the hours passed away. It was day and
the room filled with visitors. Many women
came and went, some men also. Perhaps there
were some among them whom compassion had
led thither, but by far the greater number had
been impelled by a peculiar feeling, strangely
composed of selfishness and pitying dread.
Gloomily and indifferently Miriam looked on
as they came and went. Suddenly however, she
arose and cried out wildly:
‘Away! away! There is nothing to be seen as
yet! The child is not dead yet 1’
Thereupon the people silently left the room.
In the afternoon a vehicle stopped before the lit
tle hnt at the graveyard gate. It was the Rab
bi’s ‘britska,’ and in it sat old old woman. She
was carefully lifted out, and too feeble to walk
without assistance, was oarried into the hou^e.
This was Chaja Grun, the widow of a Rabbi, and
the mother oi the present one. She wa3 known
in the village by the name of ‘Granny.’ and so
great was her wisdom, piety, and benevolence,
that all loved and revered her.
It was in her house that Miriam had once
been maid, and the old woman had grown to
love her very dearly.
She was carried into the room and placed on
a chair.
Miriam glanced up listlessly, but suddenly
her eyes flashed with new life.
‘Granny !' she cried, throwing herself at the
aged woman’s feet, ‘Granny, mad God reward
you!
She could not prooeed; her voice was choked
by sobs, —she could weep again.
Gently the aged woman passed her trembling
hand over the care-worn face of the kneeling
Miriam.
‘Do not speak,’ she said; ‘I know your misery
—they have told me all; do not speak. Listen
to what I have to say to you; listen quietly.’
But here she herself could not restrain her
tears, and they ran over her pale, venerable
countenance, as she continued:
‘I do not know—I am an old woman, my feet
will not bear me any more, my head also is get
ting weak—but I consider it a great wrong to
allow your child to die in this manner. Yes, a
great wrong. And therefore, I cannot believe
it to be God’s will, consequently not the will of
the great Rabbi of Sadagora, for he dwells in the
shadow of the Almighty.’
The old woman hesitated a moment and shook
her head, as if thereby to subdue some thought
that had secretly arisen in her. Then she pro
ceeded:
‘Yes, certainly, he has worked miracles—the
spirit of God speaks out of him. And as be pro-
nounoed sentence over you and your child, we
must hold to his word. Do you hear, whether
we wish or not—we must. For if we doubt one
thing we doubt all. Therefore the Rabbi did
not deserve the hard words you spoke to him
yesterday.’
‘Oh, Granny, if you knew '
‘Hush!’
The old woman almost shrieked’out the word,
as if all that poor Miriam said struck her very
heart.
‘Hush! Do not try to exouse yourself! You
need no excuse. My God, who could blame you
therefor ! It is your child. My God, am I not
also a mother ! But now listen: What the great
Rabbi has said, only he himself can take back.
Do you understand me ? I have tortured my
poor old head, yet found no other way. Jour
ney to Sadagora and plead there for the life of
your child.’
‘And go away and leave it ?’ oried Miriam.
‘I will see that it has the best of care,’ the .old
woman said reassuringly. ‘I will nurse -your
child as if it were my own.’
Must it be?’ cried the unhappy mother.
‘It must be,’ firmly answered the old woman,
adding in a low and wavering voice: ‘At least,
it seems as if it must be. Ah, only God alone
knows what is right! Oh, Miriam, if you only
knew how much I have suffered on your account
and that of your child. I have lived to be eighty
years old, and never doubted God or the words
of his wise men. And now I was obliged to ask:
‘Is this just?’ ’
Then she assumed her customary assured airj
and said firmly, almost commandingly:
‘Miriam, you must journey to the Rabbi.
Early to-morrow morning Simon’s coach is to
start with two passengers for Czernowitz. He
will Dut you down at Sadagora. I shall hire a
seat for you in the coach, and here is money for
your traveling expenses and your way back. In
three days you can be here again, and I am con
vinced that you will find your child convales
cent. Will you do it Miriam ? It is for the sake
of the whole congregation, but—that need not
concern you, it is also for your child’s sake.
Miriam, will you go ?’
The poor woman.fought a fierce battle. Her
faith in God had deceived her, her child had
grown weaker and weaker. A drowning man
will grasp even at the edge of the sword to save
himself. So the woman agreed to ask for meroy
at the hands of the man whom she had cursed.
‘I will go,’ she said at last. The words sound
ed like a wail.
And she went.
On the next morning, she, together with two
other passengers, both women, drove away in
Simon’s coach, out of the village along the high
road which leads towards the South, into the
Bukowina.
How she took leave of her child and what she
felt the while—ail this shall not be described
here, there is enough in this story of what is
heart-rending.
The sun rose, a cold and dull autumnal sun,
and shone down on the flat, desolate country,
and on the wretched vehicle that crept slowly
along through the deep mud of the high-road.
Then the clouds began to draw together, form
ing a gigantic gray and mournful cover over the
gloomy, dirty brown plain. The cover grew
darker and darker and sank lower and lower,
and at last it began to rain. The autumnal
wind sighed feebly, though incessantly across
the plain. Only now and then it grew stronger
and flapped at the linen awning of the vehicle.
Slowly the horses crept along the broad ill-
tended road, past leafless, dripping trees and
mist enveloped ponds, through wretched villa
ges that looked doubly disconselate in the light
of this disconsolate day. In some spots the soil
of the road was sodden to such a depth that the
wheel ol the coach remained sticking therein.
Then Simon and the three women descended
and worked till it was launched again.
Miriam was assuredly the weakest of them
all, but she worked the hardest. At such times
alone was it shown that she was conscious; all
the rest of the time she lay in her corner, with
dosed eyes as if sleeping, while fierce shivers
shook her from head to foot.
Oh, how she suffered! Her eyes were closed;
but terrible, torturing pictures stood with start
ling distinctness before her soul. She saw her
child’s bed and the poor little oreature stretch
out its arms to her. A figure bent over the bed;
it was not she, it was a figure in white, waving
garments, with a bloodless, terribly earnest
countenance—the Angel of Death!
And again it seemed to her as if she was stand
ing before the great Rabbi of Sadagora, that
stern, gloomy man, pleading for her child—O
so fervently, as only a mother can plead for her
ohild—but that he turned her away with cruel
words and she came back only to find her ohild
beneath the ground. And then again it seemed
to her as if he had nodded graciously and said:
‘I permit thy ohild to live!’ And she had come
baok and found her ohild dead all the same,
^a’how^he suffered! Incessantly, ontmngly
the feeble autumnal wind blew over the plain.
But was it in truth, only the wind that sighe
so mournfully through the air? afMno *h
And as this sighing gradually gathered streng
she suddenly comprehended it—that wasth
voice of her child crying after her: ‘Mother
dear mother!’-that was the voice of her little
Lea, whom she had left in the hands of stran
gers in her hour of sorest need—‘Mother,mioth .
•Did you not hear something ? wildly cried
the brooding woman, anxiously seizing t
hand of the woman who sat beside her.
At about two o’clock of the afternoon the ve
hicle halted before a large, solitary inn that fey
half-way between Tlusta and Zalesczyki. Here
rshort rest was to be taken. At the door stood
an elegant though very mud bespattered travel
ing^^uipage; the beautiful fiery horses were
iust being put in harness again. _
1 ‘Miriam, we are going to remain here two
hours,’ said Simon, the driver.
And the women added pitingly: .
‘Come Miriam, descend with us—you must
eat a little warm soup, else you will grow sen-
° D Mfriam obeyed and entered the large bar-room
with the others. _ , . . ^
‘I dare not get ill,’she said aloud to herself.
The large apartment, with its gray, damp
walls and dirty, slippery clay floor, was almost
empty. At a little table near the fire,sat a young,
handsome couple, clad in elegant traveling cos
tume; a fair-haired man, with mild though en-
ergetio features, and a beautiful young woman
with dark hair and a pair of flashing eyes in a,
bright, fresh face. They were evidently not
long married, this could be seen from their
glances, and the gay, happy manner in whioti
they joked with each other over their food, I hey
were partaking of a very frugal meal, consist
ing of bread and eggs. Very probably these
distinguished travelers had rejected the some
what peculiar fare of the country inn.
The three women sat down in a corner.
‘That is the chief forester of our graciouB
countess,’ whispered one to the other. ‘He went
to Czernowitz for his young wife, and very like
ly is now on his way back with her to Barnow.
‘To Barnow ?’ hurriedly asked Miriam. But
she sank back dejectedly on her seat again—
must she not go on to Sadagora ? .
The women ordered some soup, and Mariam
also ate a little of it. But she soon pushed away
her plate. Just then Simon, the driver,entered
the room; she stepped up to him.
‘I pray you,’ she pleaded, ‘must we remain
here so long?’
‘Yes—od account of the horses, returned he,
‘until four o’clock.’
‘So long?’ she sighed, ‘how many miles are
we from Barnow ?’
‘Three Germen miles. The roads are bad.
‘Only three miles?’ she answered in a start
led tone. ‘When will we get to Sadagora?’
•On the day after to-morrow, about noon.’
‘On the day after to-morrow!’ Miriam almost
screamed the words. ‘Then it will be six days
before I get back. And the Sabbath comes be
tween! Seven days! A whole week! 0! my
God, my God!’
She sat down in her corner again and covered
her face with her hands. But it availed her not
that she closed her eyes and pressed her fingers
on the lids; for all that she saw again the dread
ful visions that tortured her on the way. And
again she heard from afar,and through the walls
of the house the trembling cry:
‘Mother, mother!"
The travelers had overheard this dialogue;
they saw the woman stagger to her seat, and
called the driver.
‘What is the matter with that woman ?’ they
asked 1 -.
Simon respectfully raised his hat and told the
chief forester all he knew of the matter.
When he concluded, the young husband and
wife looked long and silently at each other.
ThiB is terrible, Karl,’ at last cried the lady.
All the brightness had vanished from her bloom
ing face, and she glanced over at the woman
with deepest compassion.
Miriam was still sitting motionless, with her
hands over her face. Fever-ohills shook her
body, but stronger shudders agitated her souL
The gentleman paid his bill, the groom enter
ed and reported that the horses were harnessed
and the young couple prepared to leave the
room. But they lingered hesitatingly awhile.
‘Karl,’ began the young lady.
‘What is it, Ludmiller ?’
‘Karl, the poor, poor woman—’
‘Yes, Ludmiller, it is heart-rending.’
And again they paused, irresolute.
Miriam let her hands drop. Slowly she rais
ed her eyes, and on seeing the two travelers rea
dy for departure, she rose and swiftly approach
ed them. She remained standing before the
young wife, and looking at her with indescrib
ably pleading eyes, folded her hands as if in
prayer, incapable of uttering a word.
The lovely bride’s eyes filled with tears as they
gazed on the deathly-pale, sorrow-stricken face
before her.
‘Can I do anything for you ?’ she asked.
‘To Barnow,’ grasped Miriam,‘take me with
you to Barnow!’
‘Willingly,’ answered the young lady, ‘Come,
we are very willing to take you; are we not Karl ?’
‘Assuredly,’ answered her husband.
‘And the Rabbi!’ cried the two Jewesses; ‘will
you not go to the Rabbi?’
And Simon, the driver, cried;
‘What will the congregation say ?’
Miriam raised herself to her full height.
‘Let them say what they will, it is my ohild
—I must go to my child!’
t But then her momentary strength forsook her,
and the aristocratic gentleman, with his groom,
were obliged almost to carry her out to the car
riage. They placed her beside the yourg lady,
the gentleman sat on the opposite seat.
Poor Miriam did not even notice this kind
ness and failed to express any thanks therefor.
Only when the gentleman called out to the dri
ver: ‘Drive as fast as you can get the horses to
run;’ she looked at him with an humble, grate
ful glance.
Thus she sat mutely in the elegant equipage,
only now and then moving impatiently as if its
speed was still too slow for her.
But they sped on very rapidly and it was still
day when they reached the little town. The peo
ple on the streets paused wonderingly when
they caught sight of the strange group in the car
riage and whispered curiously to eaoh other.
The young wife reddened; but her husband
shook his head and said:
‘What need we care ?’
And as they passed the large image of the
Mother of God, which stood before the Domin
ican convent, a strange thought oame over him
He whispered softly to himself:
‘Her name was also Miriam an d she was a poor
Jewish woman; and her mother-heart was like
wise pierced by a great grief.’
In the twilight they drew up before th e littl
hut at the gate of the grave-yard.
Quickly Miriam alighted.
‘May God reward you,’ she gasped breath
lessly.
‘Have you a physician ?’ asked the gentleman.
‘No, she answered, ‘the town physician is ab
sent—gone to theConsoription.’
‘Then I will send you the countess’ physician
rom the castle,’ he Baid after her.
But Miriam did not hear him, she was alrea
dy in the room.
The sick child was alone. A lamp threw its
feint light on the little feoe that was now of
scarlet hue and damp with perspiration,
it was covered by a very thin quilt only.