"What do you want of the child?" put in my mother. "The child knows nothing of anything, and he worries him about the knife, the knife."
"The knife--the knife! How can he not know about it?" cried my father angrily. "All the morning he hears me shouting--The knife! The knife!
The knife! The house is turned upside down for the knife, and he asks "Where? What knife?" Go away. Go and wash yourself, you good-for-nothing, you. You dunce, dunce! Tkeh-heh-heh!"
I thank Thee, Lord of the Universe, that they did not search me. But what was I to do next? The knife had to be hidden somewhere, in a safe place. Where was I to hide it? Ah! In the attic. I took the knife quickly from my pocket, and stuck it into my top-boot. I ate, and I did not know what I was eating. I was choking.
"Why are you in such a hurry? What the devil ...?" asked my father.
"I am hurrying off to school," I answered, and grew red as fire.
"A scholar, all of a sudden. What do you say to such a saint?" he muttered, and glared at me. I barely managed to finish my breakfast, and say grace.
"Well, why are you not off to "_Cheder_," my saint?" asked my father.
"Why do you hunt him so?" asked my mother. "Let the child sit a minute."
I was in the attic. Deep, deep in a hole lay the beautiful knife. It lay there in silence.
"What are you doing in the attic?" called out my father. "You good-for-nothing! You street-boy! Tkeh-heh-heh-heh!"
"I am looking for something," I answered. I nearly fell down with fright.
"Something? What is the something? What sort of a thing is that something?"
"A--a bo--ok. An--an old "_Ge--gemar--ra_.""
"What? A "_Gemarra_"? In the attic? Ah, you scamp you! Come down at once. Come down. You"ll get it from me. You street-boy! You dog-beater!
You rascal! Tkeh-heh-heh-heh!"
I was not so much afraid of my father"s anger as that the pocket-knife might be found. Who could tell? Perhaps some one would go up to the attic to hang out clothes to dry, or to paint the rafters? The knife must be taken down from there, and hidden in a better place. I went about in fear and trembling. Every glance at my father told me that he knew, and that now, now he was going to talk to me of the guest"s knife.
I had a place for it--a grand place. I would bury it in the ground, in a hole near the wall. I would put some straw on the spot to mark it. The moment I came from "_Cheder_" I ran out into the yard. I took the knife carefully from my pocket, but had no time to look at it, when my father called out:
"Where are you at all? Why don"t you go and say your prayers? You swine-herd you! You are a water-carrier! Tkeh-heh-heh!"
But whatever my father said to me, and as much as the teacher beat me, it was all rubbish to me when I came home, and had the pleasure of seeing my one and only dear friend--my little knife. The pleasure was, alas! mixed with pain, and embittered by fear--by great fear.
It is the summer time. The sun is setting. The air grows somewhat cooler. The gra.s.s emits a sweet odour. The frogs croak, and the thick clouds fly by, without rain, across the moon. They wish to swallow her up. The silvery white moon hides herself every minute, and shows herself again. It seemed to me that she was flying and flying, but was still on the same spot. My father sat down on the gra.s.s, in a long mantle. He had one hand in the bosom of his coat, and with the other he smoothed down the gra.s.s. He looked up at the star-spangled sky, and coughed and coughed. His face was like death, silvery white. He was sitting on the exact spot where the little knife was hidden. He knew nothing of what was in the earth under him. Ah, if he only knew! What, for instance, would he say, and what would happen to me?
"Aha!" thought I within myself, "you threw away my knife with the curved blade, and now I have a nicer and a better one. You are sitting on it, and you know nothing. Oh, father, father!"
"Why do you stare at me like a tom-cat?" asked my father. "Why do you sit with folded arms like a self-satisfied old man? Can you not find something to do? Have you said the night prayer? May the devil not take you, scamp! May an evil end not come upon you! Tkeh-heh-heh!"
When he says may the devil _not_ take you, and may an evil end _not_ come upon you, then he is not angry. On the contrary, it is a sign that he is in a good humour. And, surely, how could one help being in a good humour on such a wonderfully beautiful night, when every one is drawn out of doors into the street, under the soft, fresh, brilliant sky?
Every one is now out of doors--my father, my mother, and the younger children who are looking for little stones and playing in the sand. Herr Hertz Hertzenhertz was going about in the yard, without a hat, smoking a cigar, and singing a German song. He looked at me, and laughed. Probably he was laughing because my father was driving me away. But I laughed at them all. Soon they would be going to bed, and I would go out into the yard (I slept in the open, before the door, because of the great heat), and I would rejoice in, and play with my knife.
The house is asleep. It is silent around and about. Cautiously I get up; I am on all fours, like a cat; and I steal out into the yard. The night is silent. The air is fresh and pure. Slowly I creep over to the spot where the little knife lies buried. I take it out carefully, and look at it by the light of the moon. It shines and glitters, like guinea-gold, like a diamond. I lift up my eyes, and I see that the moon is looking straight down on my knife. Why is she looking at it so? I turn round.
She looks after me. Maybe she knows whose knife it is, and where I got it? Got it? Stole it!
For the first time since the knife came into my hands has this terrible word entered my thoughts. Stolen? Then I am, in short, a thief, a common thief? In the Holy Law, in the Ten Commandments, are written, in big letters: "THOU SHALT NOT STEAL."
Thou shalt not steal. And I have stolen. What will they do to me in h.e.l.l for that? Woe is me! They will cut off my hand--the hand that stole.
They will whip me with iron rods. They will roast and burn me in a hot oven. I will glow for ever and ever. The knife must be given back. The knife must be put back in its place. One must not hold a stolen knife.
Tomorrow I will put it back.
That was what I decided. And I put the knife into my bosom. I imagined it was burning, scorching me. No, it must be hidden again, buried in the earth till tomorrow. The moon still looked down on me. What was she looking at? The moon saw. She was a witness.
I crept back to the house, to my sleeping-place. I lay down again, but could not sleep. I tossed about from side to side, but could not fall asleep. It was already day when I dozed off. I dreamt of a moon, I dreamt of iron rods, and I dreamt of little knives. I got up very early, said my prayers with pleasure, with delight, ate my breakfast while standing on one foot, and marched off to "_Cheder_."
"Why are you in such a hurry for "_Cheder_"?" cried my father to me.
"What is driving you? You will not lose your knowledge if you go a little later. You will have time enough for mischief. You scamp! You epicurean! You heathen! Tkeh-heh-heh-heh!"
"Why so late? Just look at this." The teacher stopped me, and pointed with his finger at my comrade, Berrel the red one, who was standing in the corner with his head down.
"Do you see, bandit? You must know that from this day his name is not Berrel the red one, as he was called. He is now called a fine name. His name is now Berrel the thief. Shout it out, children. Berrel the thief!
Berrel the thief!"
The teacher drew out the words, and put a little tune into them. The pupils repeated them after him, like a chorus.
"Berrel the thief--Berrel the thief!"
I was petrified. A cold wave pa.s.sed over my body. I did not know what it all meant.
"Why are you silent, you heathen, you?" cried the teacher, and gave me an unexpected smack in the face. "Why are you silent, you heathen? Don"t you hear the others singing? Join in with them, and help them. Berrel the thief--Berrel the thief!"
My limbs trembled. My teeth rattled. But, I helped the others to shout aloud "Berrel the thief! Berrel the thief!"
"Louder, heathen," prompted the teacher. "In a stronger voice--stronger."
And I, along with the rest of the choir, sang out in a variety of voices, "Berrel the thief--Berrel the thief!"
"Sh--sh--sh--a--a--ah!" cried the teacher, banging the table with his open hand. "Hush! Now we will betake ourselves to p.r.o.nouncing judgment." He spoke in a sing-song voice.
"Ah, well, Berrel thief, come over here, my child. Quicker, a little quicker. Tell me, my boy, what your name is." This also was said in a sing-song.
"Berrel."
"What else?"
"Berrel--Berrel the thief."
"That"s right, my dear child. Now you are a good boy. May your strength increase, and may you grow stronger in every limb!" (Still in the same sing-song.) "Take off your clothes. That"s right. But can"t you do it quicker? I beg of you, be quick about it. That"s right, little Berrel, my child."
Berrel stood before us as naked as when he was born. Not a drop of blood showed in his body. He did not move a limb. His eyes were lowered. He was as dead as a corpse.