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Fishke the Lame
- Syracuse University Press
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32 Fishke the Lame A Story of Poor Jewish Folks 1 Last year, in the summer of 1868, after I stocked up some fresh goods and packed my wagon with all sorts of books, I headed out on my travels to those distant places where, thank God, Reb Mendele and his wares are still valued. You’ve got to know those Jews. They like it when the pages of a book are all colors and sizes, the letters are a little blurred, and every page is printed in different type: Rashi script, pica, elite, bold, pearl, italic, you name it. Don’t worry about mistakes because a Jew has a head on his shoulders and can figure things out. One printer from Obmanov, may he rest in peace, discovered the secret of what Jews like, and his books—even the most insignificant— sold like hotcakes. But I’m getting off the point. It was afternoon on the seventeenth of Tammuz, in the heat of the summer , when I turned off the main road a few miles short of Glupsk. The sky was clear and blue without a trace of clouds; the sun scorched and burned the land. There was no air to breathe and no breeze. From the wheat in the fields to the trees on the hill, nature stood still. You remember the dreadful dry heat last summer, when not a leaf stirred. Jews moved heaven and earth— everywhere they said Psalms, wailed, fasted—but for the longest time God didn’t want to grant even a single drop of rain. The grass in the pastures turned brown. The miserable cows lay exhausted with their necks outstretched , ears twitching, chewing the cud. Others rooted around in the ground with their horns, scraped their hooves, and bellowed at the heat. Nearby stood horses leaning their heads across each other, making a bit of shade, and chasing away flies with their tails. It broke my heart to see them, and yet God didn’t want to give a drop of rain, even for the sake of the innocent beasts. Everywhere it was calm and you could hear each rustle or peep, FISHKE THE LAME | 33 1. “My wretched horse . . . hasn’t changed a bit”: an allusion to descriptions of Mendele’s horse in Abramovitsh’s previous two Yiddish works, The Little Man (Dos kleyne mentshele) and The Wishing-Ring (Dos vintshfingerl). but not a single bird was out—only mosquitoes swarmed, like evil spirits. Now and then they would dance by, take a bite, and buzz and hiss in your ears. As if they’d come to whisper a secret and then march on. But I’m getting off the point. In the intense heat I sat stretched out on my wagon, stripped down—if you’ll excuse my saying so—to my undershirt and fringed garment. A stitched plush cap was pushed back on my head and woolen stockings from Breslau were rolled down to my heels. I wear them even in the summer, to atone for my sins, and I sweated heavily. Actually, if the sun hadn’t been full in my face I might have enjoyed this because I like to sweat and can lie for hours on the upper benches of the bathhouse at the hottest time of year. My father, may he rest in peace, was a hot, burning, fiery Jew who got me used to the heat since childhood. He so liked to steam up and sweat that he was famous for it. Sweating is, after all, a Jewish business, and who in this world sweats more than a Jew? But I’m getting off the point. My wretched horse also worked up quite a sweat. I should tell you that he hasn’t changed a bit except that now he limps around with a swollen back foot wrapped in rags.1 One of his eyes oozes pus and there’s a nasty cut where the bridle rubs against his neck. What difference does it make if a Jew’s horse isn’t pretty, so long as it can walk? I took pity on him and tied long strips of paper to his chewed up tail—let me tell you, this is a great trick to drive away flies and mosquitoes. But I’m getting off the point again. Behind me followed a second wagon made of old, torn straw mats. It bounced along on four uneven, squeaky wheels, pulled by an old...