Pearl Buck - Peony

David moved restlessly. “Kao Lien, you too are a Jew!”

“Mixed,” Kao Lien said dryly. There was a look of humor in his long face. Then he was grave again. “It is true that I felt my marrow cold when I saw the bodies of the dead in the streets of those western cities. But it was because they were dead, not only because they were Jews. I said to myself, Why should these or any men die this death? Why are they so hated?”

“Yes — why?” David repeated. “That is what I keep asking. If I knew, I feel I would know everything.”

Kao Lien’s small eyes grew sharp. “I will tell you what I dare not tell another soul,” he declared. “But you are young — you have the right to know. They were hated because they separated themselves from the rest of mankind. They called themselves chosen of God. Do I not know? I come of a large family, and there was one among us, my third brother, who declared himself the favorite of my parents. He boasted of it to the rest of us—‘I am the chosen one,’ he boasted. And we hated him.” Kao Lien’s thin lips grew more thin. “I hate him to this day. I would gladly see him dead. No, I would not kill him. I am civilized — I kill nothing. But if he died I would not mourn.”

In the big, silent, shadowy room David stared at Kao Lien with horror. “Are we not the chosen of God?” he faltered.

“Who says so, except ourselves?” Kao Lien retorted.

“But the Torah—” David faltered.

“Written by Jews, bitter with defeat,” Kao Lien said. He went on, “Here is the truth — I give it to you whole. We were a proud people. We lost our country. Our only hope for return was to keep ourselves a people. The only hope to keep ourselves a people was to keep our common faith in one God, a God of our own. That God has been our country and our nation. In sorrow and wailing and woe for all that we have lost has been our union. And our rabbis have so taught us, generation after generation.”

“Nothing — except that?” David asked. His voice was strange and still.

“For that many are willing to die,” Kao Lien said firmly.

“Are you?” David demanded.

“No,” Kao Lien said.

David did not speak. His childhood was falling about him like a ruin, echoing through his memory in fragments of sacred days, his mother lighting the candles on Sabbath Eve; the sweet festival of lights, Hanukah, the beautiful Menorah, holding its eight candles at the window, reminding them of the great day when, conquered though they were, the Jews had won their fight to keep their own religion under the Syrian conquerors; Purim, the day when Jews remembered how they had fought against Haman, the ancient tyrant. And most of all he remembered his own special day, when he became a Son of the Commandment.

“Are we to forget all that we are?” he asked Kao Lien at last, solemnly.

“No,” Kao Lien said. “But we are to forget the past and separate ourselves no more. We are to live now, wherever we are, and we are to pour the strength of our souls into the peoples of the world.”

He shaded his eyes with his long, narrow, thin hand, as though he prayed. They sat silent for a while and then he motioned to David to leave him. So David rose and went to the door. There Kao Lien’s voice stopped him. “I do not know whether I have done wrong,” he said, “yet what truth have I to speak except what is truth to me? Tell your father and mother what I have said, if you wish. I do not ask that it be kept secret.”

“I asked you for the truth,” David replied, “and I thank you.”

With these words he went home.

When Peony left Leah in the garden, she saw David come in through the first court and she followed him to his rooms to find out if he had eaten and if there was anything he lacked. This was her duty and she did not go beyond it.

“I have eaten,” he told her. Then he took his cap from his bosom. “Put that away for me,” he said.

When she had obeyed him she came back again into the room where he was, and there he sat by the table, his arms folded upon it, staring at nothing.

“Can I do nothing more for you?” she asked tenderly.

“Nothing — except to leave me until I call,” he replied.

He looked so stern, so grave, that she did not dare press him. There he sat, surrounded by books, opened on the table and fallen on the floor. When she stooped to pick them up he said sharply, “Leave them — I threw them there.”

So she could only leave him, but now she was in great distress. Never had he refused to tell her what his trouble was. Yet what could she do except continue to love him? She stood a moment, uncertain whether to go or stay. Then, delicately perceiving, she felt the air cold about him. Some struggle went on in him that she did not yet understand.

I must understand, she told herself. Yet nothing could be forced. Events alone could she use.

“Until tomorrow,” she said softly, and when he did not answer, she went away to her own room and made ready for the night.

At least one roof covers him and me, she thought when she lay in her little bed. Old Chang, give me my dreams! she prayed the moon. She closed her eyes, and ready to receive her dreams, she drifted into sleep.

As Ezra came near to his son’s room he saw that a single candle burned, and without letting David see him, he peered through the lattice. He was appalled by what he saw. David sat in thought and his young face looked so pale, so sad, that Ezra was frightened. This was what came of letting old men and women have their way! What if he lost this darling only child, his one son, his heart’s core, the hope of his life and his business?

He burst into David’s room like a bear. Peony had not smoothed his hair after she had healed his head, and he had forgotten to put on his little cap. His curly hair stood out in a circle and he had pulled at his beard while he meditated until it was like a broom. He was barefoot and his garments awry because he had a habit of scratching himself here and there while he pondered and ruminated, and David looked at him in astonishment.

But Ezra had already made up his mind what to do. “On such a night, with such a moon, I cannot sleep,” he declared. “I shall send Old Wang to see if Kung Chen is awake and if he too is sleepless. Let us invite him and his sons to meet us on the lake. I owe him a feast and tonight I will pay my debt. Old Wang shall hire a boat and we will order wine, supper, and musicians. Come — come — you and I—”

He pulled at David’s hand, beaming at him through his beard and flying hair and thick eyebrows. When he saw David hesitate and waver he wrapped his arms about him. “Come, my dear son,” he muttered. “You are young — you are young — time enough for grief when you are old.”

His father’s warm breath, his rich loving voice, his strong hot embrace, moved David’s heart. He flung himself into his father’s arms and burst into sobs, and now he was not ashamed. This kind father would know how he felt. Ezra held his son tightly against his breast. Tears came into his own eyes but they were tears of anger, and he gnashed his teeth and muttered through them.

“Torture — that’s it — they torture themselves and everybody else. But now it’s the children. I won’t have you tortured — what’s it for? To be young is not a sin. Besides, how do we know God? These old rabbis—”

Hearing this angry roar in his father’s lungs, David laughed suddenly in the midst of his sobs. Ezra held him off and looked at him. “That’s right, my son — you laugh! Why not? Who knows? Perhaps God likes laughter, eh? Now get on your best clothes and let’s go. Softly, so nobody wakes! I will wake only Old Wang. We will meet at the gate.” He went away, heaving sighs of relief.