ill, or walked behind her coffin. The only tears shed at the lonely old

woman's grave were ours. I spoke the only Kaddish for her soul, but we,

after all, were complete strangers to her!



Yes, we were strangers to her, and she was a stranger to us! We made her

acquaintance only a few years before her death, when she was living in

two tiny rooms opposite the first house we settled in after our

marriage. Nobody ever came to see her, and she herself visited nowhere,

except at the little store where she made her necessary purchases, and

at the house-of-study near by, where she prayed twice every day. She was

about sixty, rather undersized, and very thin, but more lithesome in her

movements than is common at that age. Her face was full of creases and

wrinkles, and her light brown eyes were somewhat dulled, but her ready

smile and quiet glance told of a good heart and a kindly temper. Her

simple old gown was always neat, her wig tastefully arranged, her

lodging and its furniture clean and tidy--and all this attracted us to

her from the first day onward. We were still more taken with her

retiring manner, the quiet way in which she kept herself in the

background and the slight melancholy of her expression, telling of a

life that had held much sadness.



We made advances. She was very willing to become acquainted with us, and

it was not very long before she was like a mother to us, or an old aunt.

My wife was then an inexperienced "housemistress" fresh to her duties,

and found a great help in the old woman, who smilingly taught her how to

proceed with the housekeeping. When our first child was born, she took

it to her heart, and busied herself with its upbringing almost more than

the young mother. It was evident that dandling the child in her arms was

a joy to her beyond words. At such moments her eyes would brighten, her

wrinkles grew faint, a curiously satisfied smile played round her lips,

and a new note of joy came into her voice.



At first sight all this seemed quite simple, because a woman is

naturally inclined to care for little children, and it may have been so

with her to an exceptional degree, but closer examination convinced me

that here lay yet another reason; her attentions to the child, so it

seemed, awakened pleasant memories of a long-ago past, when she herself

was a young mother caring for children of her own, and looking at this

strange child had stirred a longing for those other children, further

from her eyes, but nearer to her heart, although perhaps quite unknown

to her--who perhaps existed only in her imagination.



And when we were made acquainted with the details of her life, we knew

our conjectures to be true. Her history was very simple and commonplace,

but very tragic. Perhaps the tragedy of such biographies lies in their

being so very ordinary and simple!



She lived quietly and happily with her husband for twenty years after

their marriage. They were not rich, but their little house was a kingdom

of delight, where no good thing was wanting. Their business was farming

land that belonged to a Polish nobleman, a business that knows of good

times and of bad, of fat years and lean years, years of high prices and

years of low. But on the whole it was a good business and profitable,

and it afforded them a comfortable living. Besides, they were used to

the country, they could not fancy themselves anywhere else. The very

thing that had never entered their head is just what happened. In the

beginning of the "eighties" they were obliged to leave the estate they

had farmed for ten years, because the lease was up, and the recently

promulgated "temporary laws" forbade them to renew it. This was bad for

them from a material point of view, because it left them without regular

income just when their children were growing up and expenses had

increased, but their mental distress was so great, that, for the time,

the financial side of the misfortune was thrown into the shade.



When we made her acquaintance, many years had passed since then, many

another trouble had come into her life, but one could hear tears in her

voice while she told the story of that first misfortune. It was a

bitter Tisho-b'ov for them when they left the house, the gardens, the

barns, and the stalls, their whole life, all those things concerning

which they had forgotten, and their children had hardly known, that they

were not their own possession.



Their town surroundings made them more conscious of their altered

circumstances. She herself, the elder children oftener still, had been

used to drive into the town now and again, but that was on pleasure

trips, which had lasted a day or two at most; they had never tried

staying there longer, and it was no wonder if they felt cramped and

oppressed in town after their free life in the open.



When they first settled there, they had a capital of about ten thousand

rubles, but by reason of inexperience in their new occupation they were

worsted in competition with others, and a few turns of bad luck brought

them almost to ruin. The capital grew less from year to year; everything

they took up was more of a struggle than the last venture; poverty came

nearer and nearer, and the father of the family began to show signs of

illness, brought on by town life and worry. This, of course, made their

material position worse, and the knowledge of it reacted disastrously on

his health. Three years after he came to town, he died, and she was left

with six children and no means of subsistence. Already during her

husband's life they had exchanged their first lodging for a second, a

poorer and cheaper one, and after his death they moved into a third,

meaner and narrower still, and sold their precious furniture, for which,

indeed, there was no place in the new existence. But even so the

question of bread and meat was not answered. They still had about six

hundred rubles, but, as they were without a trade, it was easy to

foresee that the little stock of money would dwindle day by day till

there was none of it left--and what then?



The eldest son, Yossef, aged twenty-one, had gone from home a year

before his father's death, to seek his fortune elsewhere; but his first

letters brought no very good news, and now the second, Avrohom, a lad of

eighteen, and the daughter Rochel, who was sixteen, declared their

intention to start for America. The mother was against it, begged them

with tears not to go, but they did not listen to her. Parting with them,

forever most likely, was bad enough in itself, but worst of all was the

thought that her children, for whose Jewish education their father had

never grudged money even when times were hardest, should go to America,

and there, forgetting everything they had learned, become "ganze Goyim."

She was quite sure that her husband would never have agreed to his

children's being thus scattered abroad, and this encouraged her to

oppose their will with more determination. She urged them to wait at

least till their elder brother had achieved some measure of success, and

could help them. She held out this hope to them, because she believed in

her son Yossef and his capacity, and was convinced that in a little time

he would become their support.



If only Avrohom and Rochel had not been so impatient (she would lament

to us), everything would have turned out differently! They would not

have been bustled off to the end of creation, and she would not have

been left so lonely in her last years, but--it had apparently been so

ordained!



Avrohom and Rochel agreed to defer the journey, but when some months had

passed, and Yossef was still wandering from town to town, finding no

rest for the sole of his foot, she had to give in to her children and

let them go. They took with them two hundred rubles and sailed for

America, and with the remaining three hundred rubles she opened a tiny

shop. Her expenses were not great now, as only the three younger

children were left her, but the shop was not sufficient to support even

these. The stock grew smaller month by month, there never being anything

over wherewith to replenish it, and there was no escaping the fact that

one day soon the shop would remain empty.



And as if this were not enough, there came bad news from the children in

America. They did not complain much; on the contrary, they wrote most

hopefully about the future, when their position would certainly, so they

said, improve; but the mother's heart was not to be deceived, and she

felt instinctively that meanwhile they were doing anything but well,

while later--who could foresee what would happen later?



One day she got a letter from Yossef, who wrote that, convinced of the

impossibility of earning a livelihood within the Pale, he was about to

make use of an opportunity that offered itself, and settle in a distant

town outside of it. This made her very sad, and she wept over her

fate--to have a son living in a Gentile city, where there were hardly

any Jews at all. And the next letter from America added sorrow to

sorrow. Avrohom and Rochel had parted company, and were living in

different towns. She could not bear the thought of her young daughter

fending for herself among strangers--a thought that tortured her all the

more as she had a peculiar idea of America. She herself could not

account for the terror that would seize her whenever she remembered that

strange, distant life.



But the worst was nearly over; the turn for the better came soon. She

received word from Yossef that he had found a good position in his new

home, and in a few weeks he proved his letter true by sending her money.

From America, too, the news that came was more cheerful, even joyous.

Avrohom had secured steady work with good pay, and before long he wrote

for his younger brother to join him in America, and provided him with

all the funds he needed for travelling expenses. Rochel had engaged

herself to a young man, whose praises she sounded in her letters. Soon

after her wedding, she sent money to bring over another brother, and her

husband added a few lines, in which he spoke of "his great love for his

new relations," and how he "looked forward with impatience to having one

of them, his dear brother-in-law, come to live with him."



This was good and cheering news, and it all came within a year's time,

but the mother's heart grieved over it more than it rejoiced. Her

delight at her daughter's marriage with a good man she loved was

anything but unmixed. Melancholy thoughts blended with it, whether she

would or not. The occasion was one which a mother's fancy had painted in

rainbow colors, on the preparations for which it had dwelt with untold

pleasure--and now she had had no share in it at all, and her heart

writhed under the disappointment. To make her still sadder, she was

obliged to part with two more children. She tried to prevent their

going, but they had long ago set their hearts on following their brother

and sister to America, and the recent letters had made them more anxious

to be off.



So they started, and there remained only the youngest daughter, Rivkeh,

a girl of thirteen. Their position was materially not a bad one, for

every now and then the old woman received help from her children in

America and from her son Yossef, so that she was not even obliged to

keep up the shop, but the mother in her was not satisfied, because she

wanted to see her children's happiness with her own eyes. The good news

that continued to arrive at intervals brought pain as well as pleasure,

by reminding her how much less fortunate she was than other mothers, who

were counted worthy to live together with their children, and not at a

distance from them like her.



The idea that she should go out to those of them who were in America,

never occurred to her, or to them, either! But Yossef, who had taken a

wife in his new town, and who, soon after, had set up for himself, and

was doing very well, now sent for his mother and little sister to come

and live with him. At first the mother was unwilling, fearing that she

might be in the way of her daughter-in-law, and thus disturb the

household peace; even later, when she had assured herself that the young

wife was very kind, and there was nothing to be afraid of, she could not

make up her mind to go, even though she longed to be with Yossef, her

oldest son, who had always been her favorite, and however much she

desired to see his wife and her little grandchildren.



Why she would not fulfil his wish and her own, she herself was not

clearly conscious; but she shrank from the strange fashion of the life

they led, and she never ceased to hope, deep down in her heart, that

some day they would come back to her. And this especially with regard to

Yossef, who sometimes complained in his letters that his situation was

anything but secure, because the smallest circumstance might bring about

an edict of expulsion. She quite understood that her son would consider

this a very bad thing, but she herself looked at it with other eyes;

round about here, too, were people who made a comfortable living, and

Yossef was no worse than others, that he should not do the same.



Six or seven years passed in this way; the youngest daughter was twenty,

and it was time to think of a match for her. Her mother felt sure that

Yossef would provide the dowry, but she thought best Rivkeh and her

brother should see each other, and she consented readily to let Rivkeh

go to him, when Yossef invited her to spend several months as his guest.

No sooner had she gone, than the mother realized what it meant, this

parting with her youngest and, for the last years, her only child. She

was filled with regret at not having gone with her, and waited

impatiently for her return. Suddenly she heard that Rivkeh had found

favor with a friend of Yossef's, the son of a well-to-do merchant, and

that Rivkeh and her brother were equally pleased with him. The two were

already engaged, and the wedding was only deferred till she, the mother,

should come and take up her abode with them for good.



The longing to see her daughter overcame all her doubts. She resolved to

go to her son, and began preparations for the start. These were just

completed, when there came a letter from Yossef to say that the

situation had taken a sudden turn for the worse, and he and his family

might have to leave their town.



This sudden news was distressing and welcome at one and the same time.

She was anxious lest the edict of expulsion should harm her son's

position, and pleased, on the other hand, that he should at last be

coming back, for God would not forsake him here, either; what with the

fortune he had, and his aptitude for trade, he would make a living right

enough. She waited anxiously, and in a few months had gone through all

the mental suffering inherent in a state of uncertainty such as hers,

when fear and hope are twined in one.



The waiting was the harder to bear that all this time no letter from

Yossef or Rivkeh reached her promptly. And the end of it all was this:

news came that the danger was over, and Yossef would remain where he

was; but as far as she was concerned, it was best she should do

likewise, because trailing about at her age was a serious thing, and it

was not worth while her running into danger, and so on.



The old woman was full of grief at remaining thus forlorn in her old

age, and she longed more than ever for her children after having hoped

so surely that she would be with them soon. She could not understand

Yossef's reason for suddenly changing his mind with regard to her

coming; but it never occurred to her for one minute to doubt her

children's affection. And we, when we had read the treasured bundle of

letters from Yossef and Rivkeh, we could not doubt it, either. There was

love and longing for the distant mother in every line, and several of

the letters betrayed a spirit of bitterness, a note of complaining

resentment against the hard times that had brought about the separation

from her. And yet we could not help thinking, "Out of sight, out of

mind," that which is far from the eyes, weighs lighter at the heart. It

was the only explanation we could invent, for why, otherwise, should the

mother have to remain alone among strangers?



All these considerations moved me to interfere in the matter without the

old woman's knowledge. She could read Yiddish, but could not write it,

and before we made friends, her letters to the children were written by

a shopkeeper of her acquaintance. But from the time we got to know her,

I became her constant secretary, and one day, when writing to Yossef for

her, I made use of the opportunity to enclose a letter from myself. I

asked his forgiveness for mixing myself up in another's family affairs,

and tried to justify the interference by dwelling on our affectionate

relations with his mother. I then described, in the most touching words

at my command, how hard it was for her to live forlorn, how she pined

for the presence of her children and grandchildren, and ended by telling

them, that it was their duty to free their mother from all this mental

suffering.



There was no direct reply to this letter of mine, but the next one from

the son to his mother gave her to understand that there are certain

things not to be explained, while the impossibility of explaining them

may lead to a misunderstanding. This hint made the position no clearer

to us, and the fact of Yossef's not answering me confirmed us in our

previous suspicions.



Meanwhile our old friend fell ill, and quickly understood that she would

soon die. Among the things she begged me to do after her death and

having reference to her burial, there was one particular petition

several times repeated: to send a packet of Hebrew books, which had been

left by her husband, to her son Yossef, and to inform him of her death

by telegram. "My American children"--she explained with a sigh--"have

certainly forgotten everything they once learned, forgotten all their

Jewishness! But my son Yossef is a different sort; I feel sure of him,

that he will say Kaddish after me and read a chapter in the Mishnah, and

the books will come in useful for his children--Grandmother's legacy to

them."



When I fulfilled the old woman's last wish, I learned how mistaken she

had been. The answer to my letter written during her lifetime came now

that she was dead. Her children thanked us warmly for our care of her,

and they also explained why she and they had remained apart.



She had never known--and it was far better so--by what means her son had

obtained the right to live outside the Pale. It was enough that she

should have to live forlorn, where would have been the good of her

knowing that she was forsaken as well--that the one of her children

who had gone altogether over to "them" was Yossef?