Nineteenth-Century Jewish Literature

A Reader

By Jonathan M. Hess, Maurice Samuels, Nadia Valman

Stanford University Press

Copyright © 2013 Board of Trustees of the Leland Stanford Junior University
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-8047-7546-5

Contents

Introduction………………………………………………………11. Literature and the Invention of the Ghetto Leopold Kompert, “The
Peddler” (1849)……………………………………………………25Alexandre Weill, “Braendel” (1860)…………………………………..64David Schornstein, “The Tithe” (1864)………………………………..94Samuel Gordon, “Daughters of Shem: A Study in Sisters” (1898)…………..1232. Historical Fiction and the Sephardic Experience Grace Aguilar, “The
Escape: A Tale of 1755″ (1844)………………………………………185Ludwig Philippson, “The Three Brothers” (1854)………………………..210David Schornstein, “The Marranos: A Spanish Chronicle” (1861)…………..2483. Experiments in Jewish Realism Eugénie Foa, “Rachel; or, The
Inheritance” (1833)………………………………………………..293Ben-Lévi, “The March 17th Decree” (1841)……………………………..303Salomon Formstecher, “The Stolen Son: A Contemporary Tale” (1859)……….312Amy Levy, “Cohen of Trinity” (1889)………………………………….346Israel Zangwill, “Anglicization” (1902)………………………………3564. Fictions of Religious Renewal Ben Baruch, “The Preacher and the
Bellows” (1844)……………………………………………………387Ben-Lévi, “The Fish and the Breadcrumbs” (1846)……………………….398Sara Hirsch Guggenheim, “Aurelie Werner” (1863–64)…………………….407Israel Zangwill, “Transitional” (1899)……………………………….440Sources…………………………………………………………..465Suggestions for Further Reading……………………………………..467

Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

Leopold Kompert, “The Peddler” (1849)

Translated from the German by Jonathan M. Hess

Leopold Kompert (1822–86) hailed from the Jewish district of a small town in Bohemia,a region of the Austrian empire that is part of the Czech Republic today.Kompert was part of a generation of Bohemian Jewish intellectuals who left behindthe relatively insular worlds inhabited by their ancestors and took advantage of newpossibilities open to Jews in the Austrian empire. Like many of his peers, Kompertattended German-language schools and universities, eventually coming to identifywholeheartedly with both democratic politics and the liberating force of secular culture.After stints as a private tutor, he became a journalist and eventually establishedhimself as a writer in Vienna, where he held offices in the Jewish community andserved on the city council.

Kompert’s literary career began in earnest with his breakout volume Aus demGhetto (From the Ghetto, 1848), a collection of tales that built on the interest inregionalism and local color that dominated much German prose fiction in theaftermath of Berthold Auerbach’s best-selling Schwarzwälder Dorfgeschichten (BlackForest Villages Tales, 1843). The ghetto tale eventually came to be one of thedominant genres of German-Jewish literature in the nineteenth century. Kompertwas not the first bard of the Jewish ghetto, but following the publication of Ausdem Ghetto and its sequel volumes—Böhmische Juden (Bohemian Jews, 1851), Neue Geschichtenaus dem Ghetto (New Stories from the Ghetto, 1860), and Geschichteneiner Gasse (Stories from the Jew’s Street, 1864)—he became one of the mostpopular. His works went through numerous editions in the nineteenth century,enjoyed a wide readership among Jews and non-Jews alike, and were translatedinto many languages, including Czech, Dutch, English, French, Hebrew, Italian,Romanian, and Yiddish.

“Der Dorfgeher” (The Peddler) first appeared in 1849 in Julius Fürst’s weeklynewspaper Der Orient, a periodical that targeted both Jews and non-Jews interestedin Jewish scholarship and current events. It was subsequently republished in Kompert’ssecond major anthology of ghetto tales, Böhmische Juden, and republishedyet again in Kompert’s complete works. In its explicit concern with thetensions between tradition and modernity, its treatment of assimilation and intermarriage, and its sympathetic portrayal of traditional Jewish life, it exemplifiesKompert’s efforts to create prose narratives for the general public celebrating thenoble sufferings of the Jewish past.

* * *

One Friday afternoon, a hurried boy carrying a heavy folio volumeunder his left arm came leaping out of the rabbi’s house, which stoodright next to the synagogue. The child seemed to be around eleven,and his face was glowing. Perhaps this was due to the passion of innerexcitement, or simply to the weight of the book he was carrying. In thismoment, at any rate, he had a wonderfully beautiful expression on hisface! Lots of people were either standing around or walking throughthe street, but no one thought to ask this boy about his rosy cheeks orthe drops of dew glistening on his forehead! To do so one would havehad to have been God himself, but also without compassion. Disturbingchildren when they are running with joy is like throwing stones intothe path of the blind, and the Bible forbids this!

But when the boy went by the “Schlafstube,” the place where itinerantbeggars sleep on the Sabbath, one of these guests did not want tolet him go by without asking him a question.

“Young boy,” the beggar exclaimed, “can you tell me something?”

Like someone running down a steep mountain, the child could onlymake himself stop with considerable effort.

“What?” he asked while turning himself around, with quiet frustrationvisible at the corners of his mouth.

“Can you tell me where Schimme Prager lives? I have a ‘plett’ forhim, I’m supposed to eat at his home for the Sabbath.”

“And why shouldn’t I know that?” the boy exclaimed, astonished.”He’s my father.”

The beggar hurriedly took several steps toward the boy.

“Is that really true, what you’re saying?” he asked, eagerly grabbinghim by the hand. His voice was marked by inexpressible trembling.

“Who else should be my father?” the child asked.

It was clear that he was put off, the way spirited children often arewhen people ask uncomfortable questions about their parents.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” the beggar continued with the same level ofhurried excitement. “Isn’t your name Benjamin, my child, and don’tyou have a sister named Rösele? Doesn’t she have beautiful black hair?And is she still so full of such infectious, heartfelt happiness? Does shestill sing such magnificent songs, particularly on Friday evenings, whenfather comes home from the synagogue? You know, ‘Salem Alechem,Alechem Salem.’ And your mother, of course! Her name is Channe.Praised be God, is she still doing well and healthy? Does she still wearthe black velvet hair covering and the gold ducat around her neck?”

Suddenly the beggar stopped, putting his hand over his mouth as ifhe had betrayed too much. He then said quietly, with a smile, “If youknow, my child, where Reb Schimme Prager lives, take me there—solong as you’re willing.”

Benjamin—and this was in fact his name—was so astonished andagitated that he did not know what to make of the strange appearanceof the beggar. Never had anyone inquired into his family circumstancesin such an intimate and penetrating way. The boy could not respond.

Strangely, the beggar did not seem to be waiting for a response. Lookingdownward, but with a marvelous smile on his lips that became morebeautiful and victorious the further they went, he walked alongside theboy through all the meanderings of the street, even through the darkpassageways that were difficult to navigate without a guide. All of a suddenthey stood before Reb Prager’s home, and the boy seemed to recallthe enthusiasm with which he had left the rabbi’s house. He tore himselfaway from his companion with a powerful leap and went into the house.The beggar remained outside at the door. He did not dare enter.

“Didn’t I tell you,” he heard the boy call out, “that I would be able toread my first page of Talmud on Friday? I kept my word, mother, nowit’s your turn.”

“Yes, yes, my child,” a female voice agreed, and hearing this voiceturned the beggar pale. “Yes, yes, but not before father has had thechance to examine you on the page of Talmud. Nowadays, Benjamin,one has to be careful. But he’ll have pleasure enough when he getshome. Do you want an advance?”

To the beggar, who was eavesdropping, it seemed as if the motherhad planted two tender kisses on the cheeks of her child before Benjamincould even answer. For several minutes this sweet exchange ofgiving and taking seemed to continue. The beggar felt powerful tremorsraging through his veins and had to hold onto the door. He heardBenjamin telling his mother about meeting a “peculiar” beggar whomhe had left outside.

At that point both mother and child stepped outside, and the beggarbarely had time to jump to the side.

“God welcome you, guest,” the mother said. “Do you have a plettfor me?”

Unable to speak, the beggar handed her his written assignment forthe Sabbath meal. He was dumbfounded when, with a hand gesture, themother refused the piece of paper and said, “How am I supposed to getby? I’m sorry. I have to send you back. I can’t keep you here. My Shabbesis already made, and I wasn’t counting on you.”

“So I have to leave?” the beggar asked, trembling, his eyes fixed onthe ground. “You don’t want to keep me here for the Sabbath?”The mother, taken aback and overcome by the peculiar, painful toneof this exclamation, looked carefully at the beggar. She did not knowwhat to make of his concern. But then she said, speaking from her magnificentheart, “Nu, nu, if you’re so interested in poor people’s food,then stay, my guest. On Shabbes you shouldn’t go hungry. God knowsthat Channe Prager doesn’t run a household where she feeds five mouthsbut can’t manage to feed a sixth.”

“Do you know what?” Benjamin said suddenly, “I’ll give our guestmy portion of the fish!”

“Nu, do you see, guest?” the mother continued, smiling at the boytriumphantly. “Nu, do you see that you’ll have plenty to eat? Benjaminwill give you his fish, and there will be a piece of barches for you as well.Come, you must stay. My son Elijah is far away from home. Do I knowwhether he’ll have a Shabbes dinner tonight? How could I have forgottenthat? So please come, you won’t go hungry, I’ll make sure of it.”

Fortunately, at this very moment Reb Schimme Prager, the master ofthe house, came home, making it unnecessary for the beggar to respondor express his gratitude. The heavy pack on his back clearly identifiedhim as a peddler. Benjamin flew over to him and exclaimed, “Welcome,father, welcome, father! Do you know that I can read my first page ofTalmud?”

Before responding, Reb Schimme placed his hand on the holy placeon the doorpost where “Shaddai,” the secret name of God, peered outthrough a little shining glass window. He then brought his hand reverentlyup to his lips. This made the entire figure of the peddler appearhigher and mightier than it had seemed at first sight. It was as if proximityto God were elevating him above the load of his pack and above himself.His face was easier to make out, it was one of those countenancesthat only the ghetto knows: a furrowed brow marked by grief, trouble,and the difficulties of life. The beggar was startled deeply at this sight.

Walking on into the room, the peddler tossed off his pack like a giantcaterpillar and finally said, “That’s what you say, Benjamin, my dear, butwhat does the world say about this? Nowadays it’s hard to put one overon people, and a page of Talmud isn’t easy.”

“So why don’t you test me?” Benjamin said with a pride that waseasy to comprehend.

“Now that’s the way to talk,” the peddler said while nodding hishead. “Since you’re so eager and ready, why don’t we go see our cousinReb Jaikew tomorrow? What do you say? Let’s go to our pious cousinReb Jaikew, and you’ll tell him, ‘Cousin, you must examine me. Myfather doesn’t believe that I can already read my first page of Talmud.’And Benjamin dear, let me tell you, if you pass his test like a good boyshould, then I’ll have a new jacket made for you, one befitting a nobleman.We’ll go to Reb Maier the cloth merchant, and you can pick outthe fabric yourself.”

At this point, Channe came forward. The good mother that she was,she wanted her child to have the pleasure of greeting his father first.”Schimme,” she said with a trace of anger, “so what’s this? You don’teven greet your wife?”

The peddler smiled at her and reached out his hand. She was appeased.”What kind of a week did you have, Schimme?” she asked.

“I had a week like never before, Channe dear. I made some money,but the best thing was the pretty peasant woman, yes, the pretty peasantwoman.” While saying this, the peddler smiled enigmatically.

“What’s with this peasant woman?” Channe spoke up, and the mother’sotherwise pale and dear face turned a beautiful red. But laughing,she continued, “Maybe you’re in love, Reb Schimme? That’s justwhat I need!”

“Maybe, maybe,” the peddler smiled, even more enigmatically.

“Your days are past, my dear Reb Schimme,” Channe said, shakingher shoulders. “You’re an old little apple, and a sour one too.”

“But I should live and be happy,” the father called back, laughing.”She’s giving me grief, but the peasant woman, my pretty peasantwoman, I can’t stop thinking about her.”

The beggar kept his eyes fixed on husband and wife while this peculiarscene was going on. Now that it was over, he didn’t know where tolook. But when Reb Schimme turned away from the mother and wenton about his enigmatic “peasant woman,” he noticed the beggar standingat the door. “Salem Alechem,” he said, shaking his hand.

“Alechem Salem,” the beggar responded.

“Where do you come from?” the examination began.

“I—I come from Hungary.”

“What are you really? To me you don’t really look like a beggar.There’s something else about you.”

“Me?—I’m a teacher.”

“And you’re going begging like this? Don’t you have a father and amother?

“Yes, they should both live to a hundred.”

“Let me ask you something foolish. What’s your father’s name?”

“My father’s name is … Reb Schimme. My mother’s name is …Channe!”

Husband and wife looked at each other with surprise. It seemed thatthe mother now had a whole series of questions for the beggar, yet atthat moment, much to their horror, they heard the happy voice of thecaretaker of the synagogue calling out that the Sabbath was about tobegin. Channe remembered that she still had work to do in the kitchenand in the house; the lamp had not yet been filled, and Benjamin hadnot even twisted the wicks yet; the white tablecloths had not been setout either. And what about Reb Schimme? He was still wearing thepeddler’s attire he wore during the rest of the week and he had not evenshaved yet. The beggar excused himself. He had to tear himself awayforcefully from the ground on which he, like Moses, was supposed tohave stood with bare feet. As he passed by the mother working outsidein the kitchen, she called after him that he should not have hardfeelings, and that he should not forget to come later that day. She hadgrown to like him, this foreign and strange guest! Walking quickly, heleft the house and went back to the “Schlafstube.”

An excerpt from a letter from Emanuel to Clara

Your teacher’s lessons have yielded far too little fruit, my dear Clara!Two hours in the ghetto have convinced me that you do not knowJews and Judaism at all! Why is this? I have never told you whatit is all really about, the unfathomable, intangible perfume of thewine—I mean the spirit. There’s one thing you should think about,Clara. The world spirit that died on the cross with the blond Rabbiof Nazareth started off in a ghetto like this one. Indeed, I tell you,glimmers and buds are still alive today among its inhabitants! Twohours have convinced me of this …

I have already seen my parents, and neither of them recognizedme. My little brother Benjamin is one of those late flowers ofmarital love that God sends those people whom he wants to ensurewill smile at each other for a long time. I met him by chancein the street! This boy’s face is intelligent and alive and marked bya wonderful beauty. Then I went to my mother and stood acrossfrom her! I flirted with the danger of being recognized much as onemight play with a sharp tool that could easily draw blood. But noone recognized me. I could have been a great actor.

Do not fear for me, my beloved girl! I know how necessary itis for my peace of mind to remain in this situation! My longing isnow satisfied. I have seen them all before the waves of an old faithengulf me and I rise up again at the shore of a new faith, whereGod’s love awaits me in human form. Do not fear!

You cannot imagine what strange company I am keeping as Iwrite you this letter. I am in a “Schlafstube,” the place where heapsof Jewish beggars sleep when Sabbath brings them to the ghetto. Iam one of these! Tattered figures from all parts of the earth—Polish,German, and Hungarian beggars—are loafing around me. I amwriting this letter in their company. Two steps away from me is aPolish woman nursing her sick child. The once beautiful features ofher face are weathered and destroyed by grief, but her eyes—theyhave often reminded me of yours.

The Sabbath is entering the ghetto, and to hold onto my quillany longer begins to be a sin. Let me close. I shall see you soon,dear Clara!

Emanuel returned from the synagogue to his parents’ brilliantly lit Sabbathroom to find his father singing the ancient melody of the song ofpeace, “Salem Alechem, Alechem Salem.” Reb Schimme walked back andforth in the room as he sang, and Benjamin sat at the table looking at hisprayer book. The boy had a delicate voice that was high-pitched and welcoming,ringing out like a small silver bell over the father’s bass, whichwas also not unpleasant to the ear. Benjamin often sang alone while thefather was silent, the bright sounds of the boy’s voice resonating upwardinto the room like a whirling lark. Occasionally, when Benjamin “slippedover” a word by accident, his father would correct him, and the songwould then burst forth from the boy’s lips even more triumphantly andmarvelously. This lasted for about a quarter of an hour, during whichtime Emanuel sat in a corner of the room, as would seem appropriate fora guest, strangely moved by his father and brother’s duet.

(Continues…)
(Continues…)Excerpted from Nineteenth-Century Jewish Literature by Jonathan M. Hess. Copyright © 2013 by Board of Trustees of the Leland Stanford Junior University. Excerpted by permission of STANFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS.
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