My had become known as the best Talmud instructor in the village, and all his "employers", the the mothers of his students, were very satisfied with him...except for one mother, who was throughly dis-satisfied. This was, of course, the mother of his own children! Mother would have long arguments with him...that he ignored his own children, that he neglected them, that next to his rich students he treated them as poor step-children...that if he had spent even half as much time with them as he did with his students, who knows what her children, who had such clever heads, might have already accomplished in their studies...

She was particularly concerned that I should recive my "grounding in the Law", and never stopped demanding: "What kind of father has the heart, to neglect the education of such a child?" My father replied that he was missing the right "mate", a suitable classmate to pair me off with...that to teach me alone, he could not do. He did not dare give away his "paid-for time", which belonged to his students, even if it was for the sake of his own child.

To be fair, it must be said that father would, in his free time, try to teach me: winter in the late evenings, after classes were done, when he was tired and I was already sleepy; or in summer, Saturday afternoon, or "in-between prayers", when all my friends were playing outside, so their happy voices could be heard though the open window....that was when I had to sit in the house and study the the case of "the ox who gores his neighbor’s cow". Understand, that the whole argument as to whether this "ox who gores" was a "innocent", incapable of knowing right from wrong or a "willful miscreant", was of absolutely no consequence to me....because "with all my heart and soul", I wanted to be outside! Behind the House of Study, at that very moment, a bloody slaughter was going on...a battle of life and death....between my father’s class, which was "the Camp of Israel", and Reb Shaulkeh’s class, which was "the Camp of the Phillistines"! The tall Moyshkeh Grunem, my father’s pupil, was the enemy - Goliath the Phillistine...and I should have been little David son of Jesse! At such a time, who could stand to be sitting at the table indoors, studying the Talmud!?

My father, for his own part, also had a strong desire to get out for a while, to enjoy a chat with his good friends. And annoyed by my lack of interest in the Talmud, he would start to let loose on me all his built-up frustrations. But mother would show up just in time to defend me from him. She would start to scold him in Gentile...and from previous experience, I knew that from that strange, Gentile language, that soon would come my salvation! Sure enough, father would angrily put away the Gemorra, and growl at me: "Go already! You good-for-nothing!"....

In the summer days I truly became free as a bird. I went around catching butterfiles, spending whole days in our little garden, behind the house, where there grew all kinds of vegetables: carrots, beets, cucumbers, onions, radishes, and such. I would wander among the flowers, seeing how they grew, looking deep inside them and listening carefully to hear if they weren’t whispering secrets to each other, until finally my mother would shout at me:

"Falikel, what are you doing loafing about? Take a book in your hand and read something!"

So I would sit down in the shade of a cherry tree, and pretend to read a Pentateuch or a Gemorra....but fact, I was sitting with my ears pricked up, listening to the birds chirping and the bees buzzing above my head. And it seemed to me that I was hearing pipers piping and fiddlers fiddling, such sweet, beautiful music, which not everyone could hear, and which not everyone could understand!

Summertime opened up for me a whole new world. I went around in a ragged pair of pants, a threadbare shirt, my head bare. From up in the sky, over my head, there shone down a bright, golden sun, which warmed me and tanned my face. I ran, I jumped, the fringes from my undershirt fluttered in the breeze, my bare feet sank in the soft, warm sand. It was wonderful! I didn’t have to spend a minute cooped in the house...I didn’t even have to go home to ask my mother for a piece of bread, or a cold baked potato...because in the summertime, I could take care of myself. If I got hungry, I could sneak into the garden, pull out a couple of fresh tomatoes, radishes, or a beet, and eat my fill. Or I could go a little farther, outside the village, where the corn fields stretched on and on, pull of an ear, and roast it over a fire. And in those times, as I was walking through strangers’ fields, I felt I was walking through the fields of Bethlehem in ancient Judea, following behind the harvesters and collecting the leftover ears which had fallen by the wayside...which, according to what is written in Holy Torah, belong to the poor people.

More than anything else, I was drawn to the river. Not because I wanted God forbid to swim alone, without my father’s permission...that would have been unthinkable! Because the river was full of terrifying deep under-currents, in which more than one poor soul iz had already drowned. I simply liked to lie on its banks, on the soft grass, and listen to its quiet, mysterious murmuring. If I got bored, I would gather up some stones and toss them in the water. I loved to watch the ripples spreading over the smooth mirror-surface...the river would open its mouth and swallow one stone after another, saying "gurgle-gurgle", as if to ask: "more-more-more".

All around it is quiet. Somewhere in the air, I hear the zoom of a bee, and somehwere else the flutter of a butterfly...and then it would be quiet again. Over there, on the roof of a barn, a tall stork stands before his nest on one foot, and clucks at his wife something in his language: "cluck-cluck-cluck". From the neighboring fields comes the clanging of iron shoes on horses’ feet. One of them gives a neigh, and from somewhere else is heard the lowing of a cow. A dog barks. And far away, a shepherd plays on his pipes. All of these notes and sounds, swirling through the air, are mixed together in my ears in a sweet song, as though all of nature were singing a hymn in praise of Creation. The quiet song moves me. The fragrant smells, which come from the surrounding fields and pastures, intoxicate me so that I want to lie there forvever...

But something makes me sit up suddenly. I’ve been already too long away from home! By now, they are thinking that something must have happened to me!

There would be a big to-do. Mother would soon organize a party of her "underlings", my father’s students, and once they found me...there would be hell to pay! I would be hauled before my father, "the Rabbi"..I was overcome by fear...I had to get home, quickly!

But then I noticed something far up the river...a small flotilla, bringing long, thick logs, on its way north, all the way to Dantzig! I stood there awe-struck. I watched excitedly, my heart beating fast, as the strapping, healthy Gentiles, with their sunburned faces, with their long, thick waving hair, with the long poles, ropes and pikes in their hands, guided the enormous log raft under the wooden bridge. They ran busily back and forth over their "floating forest", shouting, calling, barking instructions back and forth, so that God forbid they should run aground on the submerged piles under the bridge. I stood there staring my eyes peeled open at the long, floating rows of logs, which were bound together by means of such thick, strong braided strands of roots and branches. My eyes were drawn to the little straw houses which stood on the logs, where the log-drivers ate and slept; where at night, they would gather around their lanterns, play on their accordions, and sing songs songs of the forests and fields, of village and home...

Oh, how good it would be, I thought to myself...if only I could run away with that floatiing bridge, to float down the river to distant cities and lands! I wasn’t thinking about my father’s fury, his beatings...I wasn’t thinking about my mother’s sorrowful lectures: "My son, what will become of you?"...for now, I was captivated by my fantasies. In my mind, I was helping to drive the flotilla...I was standing on the long rows of logs...I was floating down the river with them...to somewhere far, far away. After a long time, I realized that the "real" flotilla had disappeared from view...dis-appeared from view to "somewhere-land"...

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

In summer I also became a paid laborer. I worked for Reb Shaul-Nakhum, one of the town’s leading citizens, who was roundly disliked. They used to say of him, that he had the Riches of Croesus. He was as miserly as he was rich, a real cheapskate. He owned a huge house, with towers, stalls, and stables, with animals, chickens, geese, and ducks, many of them presents from his wealthy patrons, who used to borrow money from him "on a percentage". He also owned a orchard with all kinds of expensive fruit trees, with a large garden and a whole estate, which was surrounded by a tall, dense, hedge, so that no stranger’s eye should be able to look inside. All his doors and gates were hung with iron bars, secured with big, heavy locks...because he was terrified at the thought that some one should break in and steal from him.

Day and night, he would sit with his big, thick books, which were full of gruesome pictures: skeletons, limgs, heads, hands and feet, stomachs with curled-up intestines. He was a great student of "Medical Science"...not so that he should be able to heal the village sick, but in fact to protect his own well-being, the health of his own disgusting, massive, fat-laden body. And so he had a huge collection of all kinds of remedys, lotions, and balms, which he kept in dozens of flasks, bottles, and jars. These could be seen everywhere...on all the tables, shelves, and cupboards. They gave off a sharp smell of carbolic acid, naphthalene, and ammonia, which penetrated your nose and throat to make you gag. But above all, he had such bizarre habits, crazy practises, which only such a pillar of the community as Shaul Nakhum could get away with. For example, in summer, he would walk around with a warm scarf wrapped around his neck, and with warm woolen socks on his feet...so that God forbid he shouldn’t catch a chill. But in winter, he would go out with an axe to the frozen river, chop out a hole, and bathe himself! From such craziness, the village would howl laughter. But this didn’t deter him...he continued to practise his strange ways.

He kept his distance from the townsfolk...few indeed had had the opportunity to cross his threshold and enter his house, which was locked "with seven keys". The one exception, the only person he really trusted....was my father, whom he held in the highest esteem! For one thing, my father himself had once been a property manager for the "nobility". Secondly, my father was no less knowledgeable than he in the ways of trees and plants. He would often be consulted concerning his great experience...sitting for hours over a glass of tea with cake. Besides all this there was one more thing for which Reb Shaul-Nakhum depended on my father: massages! When he started feeling sleepy he would often send for father, who would come running over and set to work immediately on his aching shoulders. He would tirelessly rub that fat body, using Reb Shaul-Nakhum’s own home-made balms and lotions, until from that "fat body" would come a cloud of steam, and Reb Shaul felt satisfied.

In recognition of my father, I became a member of Reb Shaul-Nakhum’s "inner circle". He would often tell his wife (who was even stingier than he) she should give me a cookie to eat. While he and my father would sit and chat, I would sit there quiet as a mouse and never take my eyes of him. His disgusting body, which was wraped in a broad Turkish kimono, with his fat red cheeks, with his beady little eyes, with his blue eyeglasses restring on his thick, fleshy nose...with his thick, anatomical books which were written in every language...and with the dozens of bottles and jars of medicine which stood about everywhere, like in a giant pharmacy...all these things together conjured up in me a feeling of terror! And at the same time, these things fuelled my childish fantasies... In particular, I dreamed of uncovering the secret of his hidden treasures, over which the village used to speculate so much. I would sit with my ears pricked up, sniffing with my nose, trying to detect but a hint a trace of his treasures. My obsession became even greater just before Passover, when mother ouldn’t hold back with her sniffing and coughing...that "the holidays were coming, and there wasn’t even enough money to go to the baker to bake matzos"...and I so wanted to have a pair of new shoes, or a new coat for the holidays...

And so it was that in those carefree summer days of mine, I became a worker, a day laborer for Reb Shaul-Nakhum, that "pillar of the community". With a big tin sprinkler in hand, I would go about his great orchard, from tree to tree, by means of this liquid poison combatting the worms which would attack the trees and eat up their leaves; pulling the weeds from his garden, and feeding his chickens, ducks, and geese. For all this, he would permit me to collect baskets of sour green apples...or he would pay me with a bunch of green potatoes or onions from his over-grown crops....not to mention later in summer, when you had to go aound with a knife and cut off the dried stalks from the onions, or trim the shoots from the now--over-grown beets, tomatoes, and radishes...then I would earn heaps of money. For each quarter-section, I would get a whole kopek, and as a extra reward, a little basket of vegetables to take home. The kopeks I would give my mother, she should hold onto them for me, until I had collected enough money to buy myself a new hat for the holidays.

*****************************

I loved the summer with all the strength of my youthful soul. I rejoiced for every tree, flower, and living thing, as though they had all been put on earch for my sake alone. But when summer started to fade away, to have its place taken by the cold, cruel autumn, a feeling of unease would come over me, as though I couldn’t find a place to stand. And just as the long cold winter drove the bear into his cave, so did it drive me into our small house. Here I felt so cramped and confined that I could harldy breath...

Evening. My father is sitting at the long table, over which swings a lamp, suspended from the ceiling by a rope. Mother sits by the fire, and knits a sock, or puts a patch on an old coat. My young brother and younger sister sit in a corner playing a game of "sheep and wolf". Only I have no place of my own! My father’s students have occupied the whole table so there is nowhere left for me to sit. I drag myself about, until finally I sit down in a dimly-lit corner and pretend to read a Gemorra.

And as I sit alone, idly turning the pages of the Gemorra, a little song runs through my head: "ilu metziat shelo..."; which means, that the things a person finds, belong to him: valuables, money....MONEY! A thought runs though my head, like lightning: what a thing it would be, if I went out one day, and found those lost valuables, or maybe a bag full of money? How my parents would rejoice! And what a big-shot I would be in the eyes of all the rich kids in town!

And then there came into my head a second thought: why not find a buried treasure!...the kind I’d heard so many stories about, from the old men in the House of Study, and from the penny-novels I used to read...how somewhere in the ground, under a stone, or somewhere deep in a forest, a person could find such an treasure! To be sure, it wouldn’t be easy...you had to really search for it. I had to find it! If not for my own sake, then for the sake of my poor parents...

But then my gaze fell on the blank, greenish-white lime-covered wall. Shadowy images appeared before my eyes...bizzare forms, hunchbacked figures laden with heavy packs, sticks in their hands....wandering blindly about, who knows were, who knows what for? The shadows jumped and danced on the wall, making such crazy gestures...it was terrifying! These were no ordinary shadows of my father and his students swaying over their books by the light of the swinging lamp...no! These were the "Angels of Evil", devils, evil spirits (Lord have Mercy!), who had come to life from my mother’s books, from the "Kav Ha-Yashar", from the terrifying "Sheyvet Musar", from which I had read so many stories. "Who knows", I thought to myself, "what they are planning to do?"...a shudder went through my whole body...

Suddenly a bell rang. It was the clock on the wall, signalling the joyful news that finally the evening lessons were over. I snapped out of my "world of dreams", and looked around with startled eyes, still not certain where in the world I was.

My father was the first to rise. He got up with a cough, and stretched out his legs, which were stiff from sitting so long at the table. He was followed by his students, who jumped up and quickly put on their overcoats, lit up their paper, wooden, and tin lanterns, and with a shout, ran off to their homes. In the little house, there was a stillness, like after a storm. And only then did I truly feel as though I also had a home, like other children.

And so did I live in my rich "world of dreams". Wherever my eyes came to rest, I could conjure up strange faces, figures, scenes, and pictures, which carried me away to my own world. Thanks to these fantasies, I was often able to forget my longing for a bagle with butter, for a hot roll, like my father’s pupils used to eat...I could forget that my trousers, passed on from my older brothers, consisted of patches on top of patches...

But on the other hand, my fantasies were also a source of trouble...because on account of them , the other children sometimes used to look at me as if I were "not quite all there": the sad fate, alas, of every dreamer in this sinful world.