Joseph Roth - Tarabas

They sat there, rocking their mauled bodies to and fro in the darkness of the little rooms, where the shutters had been nailed over the windows, although it is forbidden to knock nails in on the Sabbath. But the commandment to preserve life is as binding as that which enjoins the keeping holy of the Sabbath. They swayed and said the psalms aloud in sing-song, those that they knew by heart, and the others they read with their blurred eyes close against the pages of their books in the deep twilight of the rooms. Spectacles, broken and cracked, tied together with string, rested upon their long and sorrowful noses; they sat pressed close against each other to read, for the books were few, not more than one to every three or four of them. And they were careful not to raise their voices, for fear that they might be heard outside. From time to time they stopped and strained their ears for noises in the street. Some even ventured to peep through the cracks and crosspieces of the shutters. Were they already there, the new persecutors against whom the drums had warned them? They must play dead; hope lay in making the advancing horde of peasants think that not one Jew had remained alive in Koropta.

Among these pitiable souls was the sexton of the synagogue, Shemariah, of all unhappy Jews the most unhappy. His woe was known to everyone. He had been long years a widower, and had an only son. Yes — had! For in reality he could no longer call his son by that name, since — it happened during the war — he had spat upon his father and announced his intention to become a revolutionary. True, Shemariah, the father, was to blame for it; he had saved up a few hundred rubles with which to send his son to the university. The foolish sexton of the Koropta synagogue had once allowed himself the wish to see his son an educated man, a doctor of medicine or law. But what had come of this forward undertaking? An insubordinate schoolboy first, who had struck a master, been turned out of the school, and then apprenticed to a watchmaker; who founded a revolutionary “circle” in Koropta, repudiated God, read books, and prophesied the dictatorship of the proletariat. Although he had a feeble constitution like his father, and the army would have none of him, he enlisted as a volunteer — by no means in order to defend his Tsar, but, as he declared, to “make a clean sweep of all the despots.” In addition to which he stated that he did not believe in God because He was only an invention of the Tsar’s and the rabbis’.

“But you’re a Jew, aren’t you?” old Shemariah had asked.

And “No, Father,” the terrible son had answered, “I am not!”

He had left home and gone to the war, and after the outbreak of the first revolution wrote a last letter to his old father, containing the information that he would never come back home again. They were to think of him as dead and done with.

Shemariah thought of him, accordingly, as dead and done with, sat in mourning over him for seven days as the law prescribed, and ceased to be a father.

He was poor in health and very thin, and, despite his advanced age, still violently red of hair and beard. He looked the picture of a wicked sorcerer with his fan of bristling, flaming beard, the countless freckles on his pale, bony face, the scraggy arms, long as a monkey’s, and the long, limp hands, thin too and covered with red hairs. He was called “Red Shemariah.” And many a Jewish woman went in fear of his yellow eyes. But in reality he was a harmless man, resigned, humble, simple, pious, good-humoured, and full of zeal and diligence. He lived on onions, radishes, and bread. In summer maize-cobs were his delicacy and luxury. His income was the few copeks the congregation paid him, and the occasional alms which came his way, mostly on the eve of the holy days. For his son’s end he blamed himself. It was the punishment for his paternal arrogance. True, he had now, according to the laws of his religion, which was the only reality he recognized, no son. But in his dreams and waking hours thoughts of his child often came back to him. Perhaps he would come back one day from the dead? Perhaps God would send him home? To bring such things about one needs but to be pious, ever more and more so. Therefore in piety and observance of the law Shemariah surpassed all others in the congregation.

Yesterday he, too, had been thrown up into the air a few times. And someone’s fist had struck against his chin. Today his jaw gave him such pain that he could hardly speak an intelligible word. But he gave his sufferings no thought. Another care preoccupied him. They had set fire to the little synagogue. Perhaps the scrolls were burnt? And if they were not, should they not be rescued now while there was still time? And if they were, should they not now, as the law prescribes, be buried in the cemetery?

All day long Shemariah’s anxious thoughts hovered round the scrolls. But jealousy kept him silent. He kept his care a secret for fear lest there might be another one besides himself prepared to save the sacred things. But this magnificent deed should be reserved for him alone. In the great ledger in which the account of every Jew was kept in heaven, the Eternal One would enter a flourishing “Excellent” against his name, and fate might even bring him back his son as a reward. Therefore Shemariah kept his worry to himself. He did not know yet by what means it might be possible to reach the street without being seen by the soldiers of the dangerous Tarabas, or by the still more dangerous peasants. But the thought that the scrolls of the law, ruined by fire, should wait in vain for honourable burial, filled Shemariah with unspeakable anguish. If only he could talk about it! Pour out his heart! But the prospect of unique merit and a blest reward forbade him to utter a word.

Late in the afternoon, at the very hour when the Jews of Koropta were used on other days to celebrate the end of the Sabbath and the beginning of another week, loud noises penetrated to them through the fastened shutters. The peasants were coming, the peasants! Ah, these are no longer the more or less familiar and friendly neighbours from the villages around Koropta, although it was just those who had beaten one and thrown one into the air! But, ah! these are strange peasants, peasants never seen before. Everything conceivable and inconceivable can be expected from these — outrage of every kind, murder even. On second thought the cruelties of yesterday were jests, yes, positively harmless jests, when all was said and done! But what might now come, that would certainly be dead earnest.

The peasants were moving towards Koropta. They were coming nearer and nearer, in long processions, singing hymns. With many bright banners embroidered in gold and silver, and led by white-robed priests, the women and men, the girls and children came. There were some among them who were not satisfied merely to make the pilgrimage to Koropta. They had to make the holy task still harder. Therefore they let themselves fall down every five, seven, or ten paces, and shuffled the next ten steps upon their knees. Others threw themselves upon the ground at certain intervals, lay there as long as it took to repeat a paternoster, rose, staggered along a while, then fell again. Almost all had candles in their hands. Their well-polished Sunday boots were slung over their shoulders, to save the soles. The women were wearing their brightest, prettiest kerchiefs; the men their Sunday vests embroidered with gay flowers, which looked like the meadows of spring. Shrill, out of tune and hoarse, but with voices warm with fervour, they sent the miracle their songs still from afar.

For the news of the wonder that had taken place in Kristianpoller’s yard spread through the villages of the whole district within a single day. Yes, the manner and the speed of this was a miracle in itself. Of the peasants who had come to the Koropta market not a few had driven to distant villages that same night to bring the fabulous tidings to relatives, friends, and strangers there. Certain events evoke an echo far and wide in some inexplicable way, needing no aid from any of the modern means of travel and communication to make themselves known to all the world. The air transmits the news to all whom it concerns. And word of the miracle in Koropta went out thus and was heard for miles around.