"Where is the key?"
Hersh found the key of his great-grandfather's library, and they began to take down the large books. They placed them on the floor, and having seated themselves, they began to turn slowly one leaf after the other. Clouds of dust rose from the piles of paper, which had remained untouched for centuries. The dust settled on Freida's snow-white turban in a gray layer, and covered also Hersh's golden hair. But they worked on indefatigably and with such a solemn expression on their faces that one would think that they were uncovering the grave of their great-grandfather in order to take therefrom his grand thoughts.
Evening was already approaching when Hersh exclaimed as people exclaim when they meet with victory and bliss. Freida said nothing, but she rose slowly and extended her hands above her head in a movement of gratitude.
Then Hersh prayed fervently near the window, through which could be seen the first stars appearing in the sky. During the whole night there was a light in that window, and seated at the table, his head resting on both hands, was Hersh, reading from large yellowish sheets of paper. At the break of day, when the eastern part of the sky had hardly begun to burn with pinkish light, he went out, dressed himself in a travelling mantle and large beaver cap, got into a carriage, and drove away. He was so deeply plunged in thought that he did not even bid good-bye to his children and servants, who crowded the hall of the house.
He only nodded to Freida, who stood on the piazza, with the white turban on her head turning pink in the light of the dawn. Her eyes, which followed her husband, were filled with sadness and pride.
Where had Hersh gone? Beyond mountains, forests, and rivers, to a remote part of the country where, amidst swampy plains and black forests of Pinseyzna lived an eloquent partisan of the rights to civilisation of the Polish Jews, Butrymowicz. He was a karmaszym--(the higher, or rather richer, class of nobility in Poland were called by that name, which means a certain shade of red, because their national costumes were of that colour)--and a thinker. He saw clearly and far.
He was familiar with the necessities of the century.
When Hersh was introduced into the mansion of the nobleman and admitted to the presence of the great and wise member of parliament, he bowed profoundly, and began to speak thus:
"I am Hersh Ezofowich, a merchant from Szybow, and the great-grandson of Michael Ezofowich, who was superior over all the Jews, and was called Senior by the command of the king himself. I come here from afar. And why do I come? Because I wished to see the great member of the Diet, and talk with the famous author. The light with which his figure shines is so great that it made me blind. As a weak plant twines around the branch of a great oak, so I desire to twine my thoughts about yours, that they shall over-arch the people like the rainbow, and there shall be no more quarrels and darkness in this world."
When the great man answered encouragingly to this preface, Hersh continued:
"Serene lord, you have said that there must be an agreement between two nations, who, living on the same soil, are in continual conflict."
"Yes. I said so," answered the deputy.
"Serene lord, you said that the Jew ought to be equal in everything with the Christians, and in that way they would be no longer noxious."
"I said it."
"Serene lord, yon have said that you consider the Jews as Polish citizens, and that it is necessary that they should send their children to the secular schools. They should have the right to purchase the land, and that among them certain things, which are neither good nor sensible, should be abolished."
"I said it," again affirmed the deputy.
Then the tall, stately figure of the Jew, with its proud head and intelligent look, bent swiftly, and before the deputy could resist Hersh had pressed his hand to his lips.
"I am a newcomer in this country," said he softly. "Younger brother--"
Then he drew himself up and pulled from the pocket of his halat a roll of yellowish papers.
"That which I have brought here," he said, "is more precious to me than gold, pearls, and diamonds."
"What is it?" asked the deputy.
Hersh answered in a solemn voice:
"It is the will of my ancestor, Michael Ezofowich, the Senior."
They both sat reading through the whole night by the light of two small wax candles. Then they began to talk. They spoke softly, with heads bent together and burning faces. Then toward day-break they rose, and simultaneously each stretched out and shook the hands of the other cordially.
What did they read the whole night, and of what were they talking?
What sentiment of enthusiasm and hope united their hands as a sign of a pact? Nobody ever learned. It is sunk in the dark night of historical secrets, with many other desires and thoughts. Adversities plunged it there. It was hidden, but not lost. Sometimes we ask ourselves whence come the lightnings of those thoughts and desires which nobody has known before? And we do not know that their sources are the moments not written on the pages of the history by any writer.
The next day a coach driven by six horses stopped before time house of the nobleman. The noble, with his Jewish guest, got in, and together they went to the capital of the country.
A couple of months afterwards Hersh returned from Warsaw to Szybow.
He was very active in the town and its environments, he spoke, explained, persuaded, trying to gain partisans for the changes which were in preparation for his people. Then he went away again, and again he returned--and went away. This lasted a couple of years.
When Hersh returned from Ins last journey he was very much changed.
His looks were sad, and his forehead was lined with sorrow. He entered the house, sat on the bench, and began to pant heavily.
Freida stood before him, sorrowful and uneasy, but quiet and patient.
She did not dare to ask. She waited for her husband's words and look. Finally he looked at her sadly, and said:
"Everything is lost!"
"Why lost?" whispered Freida.
Hersh made a gesture, indicative of the downfall of something grand.
"When a building falls," he said, "the beams fall on the heads of those who are within, and the dust fills their eyes."
"It is true," affirmed the woman.
"A great building is in the mire. The beams have fallen on all the great problems and our great works, and the dust covers them--for a long time."
Then he rose, looked at Freida with eyes full of big tears, and said:
"We must hide the Senior's testament, because it will be useless again. Come, let us hide it carefully. If some great-grandson of ours will wish to get it, he will find it the same as we did."
From that day Hersh grew perceptibly older. His eyes dulled, and his hack grew bent. He sat for hours on the bench, sighing deeply, and repeating:
"Assybe! assybe! assybe! dajde!" (Misfortune! Misfortune! Woe!)
Around this sad man moved softly and solicitously a slender woman dressed in a flowing gown and white turban. Her dark eyes often filled with tears, and her steps were so careful and quiet that even the pearls which ornamented her neck never made the slightest noise, and did not interrupt her husband's thoughtfulness.
Sometimes Freida looked sadly at her husband. His sadness made her sad also, but she did not clearly understand it. Why was he sorrowful? His riches did not diminish, the children grew healthy, and everything was as before that quarrel with Reb Nohim and the finding of those old papers. The loving and wise woman, whose whole world was contained between the four walls of her home, could not understand that her husband's spirit was carried into the sphere of broad ideas--that it was fond of the fiery world, and being driven out of it by the strength of events, could not be cured of its longing. She did not know that in this world there were griefs and longings which had no connection with either parents or with children, or with wife or with wealth, or with one's house, and that such griefs and longings of the human spirit are the most difficult to cure.
Todros was rejoicing, and he called his flock to rejoice with him, who believed in his wisdom and sanctity. He triumphed, but he desired to triumph still further. To destroy the Ezofowichs would mean to destroy the stream which flowed into the future, striving with that other stream which strove to congeal into ice--into the petrification of the past. Who knows what may happen in the future? Who knows but that that cursed family may not give rise to a man strong enough to destroy the centuries of work achieved by the Todros. If events had taken another turn, Hersh, with the aid of his friend Edomits, would already have accomplished this!
As in times of yore, his ancestor Michael was accused, so now Hersh was assailed with reproaches of all kinds. In the synagogue they shouted at him that he did not observe the Sabbath, that he was friendly with gojs (any man who does not follow Judaism is a goj), and that he sat at their tables and ate meat which is not kosher.
That in contentious affairs he avoided Jewish courts, and went to the tribunals of the country; that he did not obey the superiors of kahal, and he even dared to criticise them that he did not respect Jewish authorities in general, and Reb Nohim in particular.
Hersh defended himself proudly, refuting some of the objections and acknowledging some of the others, but justifying them by reasons, which, however, were not recognised as being right, either by his people or his superiors.
This lasted quite a long time, but finally it stopped. The accusations were discontinued, and intrigues ceased, because the object of these attacks became himself silent, and morally disappeared. Grown prematurely old, and tired of lights, Hersh shut himself up in the circle of private life, and occupied himself with business transactions, These, however, did not go as smoothly as did those of others, because he did not possess--as did others--the sympathy of his brethren. What he felt, and about what he thought, in those last years of his life, no one knew, for he told no one anything. Only before his death he had a long conversation with his wife.
The children were too small to be entrusted with the secret of his disappointed desires, wasted efforts, and smothered griefs. He left these as a legacy to his children through his wife. Did Freida understand and remember the words of her dying husband? Was she willing, and was she able, to remember them, and repeat them to his descendants? It is not known. Only this is certain--that only she knew the place where the Senior's will was hidden--the old writings which were the heritage not only of the Ezofowich family but of the whole Israelitic nation--a neglected and forgotten heritage, but in which--who knows!--were treasures a hundredfold richer than those which filled the chests of that wealthy family.
Therefore the Senior's last thoughts and wishes slept in some hiding-place, waiting for a bold descendant who would be courageous enough to bring them into life. But in the meantime there remained in the town not one soul longing for the light--not one heart which throbbed for something more than his own wife, his own children, and before all, his own riches.
There was plenty of noise arising from the care and haste whose only aim was to gain money; there was darkness because of mystic fears and dreams there was narrowness and suffocating because of merciless, grinding, dead orthodoxy.
The common people of the same faith throughout the whole country considered the people of Szybow as powerful, both materially and morally, wise, orthodox, almost holy.