“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.
While the peasants thus approached from every side at once, so that no less than six processions converged at Kristianpoller’s inn at the same moment; and while the Jews in the few darkened houses sat longing for the delivering night to come, Tarabas sat together with his officers in the inn parlour, the servant Fedya waiting on them in his master’s stead. Kristianpoller had gone into hiding.
But the pious peasants cherished no thoughts of vengeance and violence today. They had taken the admonitions of their priests to heart. Gently their ardour flowed towards the miracle, like a full stream between dikes. Services were held, several in close succession, one for each group of pilgrims. An improvised altar had been set up. The out-house recalled one of those chapels, roughly and hastily erected hardly three hundred years before by the first missionaries to that land. For three hundred years this people had been receiving Christian baptism. And yet at the end of a day’s gay pig-market, and after a few rounds of beer, and at the sight of a lame Jew, the ancient heathen woke in all of them.
Things were not left wholly to the priests today; soldiers patrolled the street and all the lanes of Koropta. Amongst the officers in Kristianpoller’s parlour excitement reigned. For the first time since Tarabas had taken over his command, they were daring to say in his presence what they thought. Undeterred by his presence there, drinking his accustomed spirits, wrapped in fierce gloom, and silent, they shouted and laughed noisily, quarrelled and argued; some were expounding various theories about the new state, the army, and revolution, about religion, peasants, superstition, and Jews. They seemed neither to fear nor to respect him, all at once. It was as though the miracle in Kristianpoller’s out-house and the Koropta fire had deprived Colonel Tarabas of dignity and power.