mps, wrote
letters. This went on until the Days of Mourning arrived--the time of
the elections. And there began a struggle between the two factions. On
the one side there was Isshur and his patrons, the committee-men; and on
the other side, the youngsters, the heathens, the scamps, and their
candidates. Each faction tried to attract the most followers by every
means in its power. One faction tried impassioned words, enflamed
speeches; the other, soft words, roast ducks, dainties, and liberal
promises. And just think who won? You will never guess. It was we young
scamps who won. And we selected our own committee-men from amongst
ourselves--young men with short coats, poor men, beggars. It is a shame
to tell it, but we chose working men--ordinary working men.
* * *
I am afraid you are anxious for my story to come to an end. You want to
know how long it is going to last? Or would you rather I told you how
our new committee-men made up their accounts with the old beadle? Do you
want to hear how the poor old beadle was dragged through the whole
village by the youngsters, with shouting and singing? The boys carried
in front of the procession the whole treasure of candles, wax,
"_Tallissim_" and prayer-books which they had found in the attic of the
synagogue. No, I don't think you will expect me to tell you of these
happenings.
Take revenge of our enemy--bathe in his blood, so to speak? No! We could
not do that. I shall tell you the end in a few words.
Last New Year I was at home, back again in the village of my birth. A
lot, a lot of water had flown by since the time I have just told you of.
Still, I found the synagogue on the same spot. And it had the same Ark
of the Law, the same curtains, the same reader's-desk, and the same
hanging candlesticks. But the people were different; they were greatly
changed. It was almost impossible to recognize them. The old people of
my day were all gone. No doubt there were a good many more stones and
inscriptions in the holy place. The young folks had grown grey. The
committee-men were new. The cantor was new. There was a new beadle, and
new melodies, and new customs. Everything was new, and new, and new.
One day--it was "_Hoshana Rabba_"--the cantor sang with his choir, and
the people kept beating their willow-twigs against the desks in front of
them. (It seems this custom has remained unchanged.) And I noticed from
the distance a very old man, white-haired, doubled-up, with a bi
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