.11.1 ■ 111,
THE JEWISH CHRONICLE
The only Jewish publication in the State of Michigan
Devoted to the interests of the Jewish people
Vol.
IL No.24
DETROIT, MICH., AUG. 10, 1917
$1.50 per Year
Single Copies10 Cents
"No More General No More o ay
FROM THE YIDDISH OF S. VERNDORFF
Translated by Hannah Berman
Chariton Zacharewitz Zimbal values Judaism very highly. .,1nd he under-
stands Judaism in his own way.
"What belongs to God, belongs to God, Nvhat to men, to men," lie argues.
"When I have business with Pani Inass, I must drink whiskey with him; and after
the whiskey a bite of something forbidden steals into our mouth. But in my house
everything is Kosher. I am a Jew. You understand, brother? I have paid dearly
for my Judaism. I have paid for it with my own skin. I had to walk on peas on
baths; gave us no water for
my knees. They fed us on herrings; drove us to the
understand?
Lo, and behold! We are
would
not
give
in.
You
three days. We
himself
tried
to
convert
me. No, brother ; not
our fathers' children. The colonel
faith.
Not
like
the
youngsters
of today. My
that. We could suffer for our•
Nlishka, the scamp, will not hold his religion, not put in his "Tephilin." We hid in
corners to say our prayers. Wien they saw they could not talk us over, they
tortured us. We held out like heroes. We had a drill sergeant who commanded
at once:
"Well, Zimbal, Jew, sing the Zumisous . ."
"No, not from Volhyina, from Vassilkova. The whole town is plundered.
As the Lord helps you, give !"
"Will you come to my house for supper? Today is Purim—a fine festival.
Eh—what?"
The supper at Chariton Zacharewitz's was fit for a king. Dishes—without an
end. Drink—enough to satisfy a congregation of Chassidim.
When they had had a few glasses and the host was about to fill them again, he
said to the guest:
"A fine festival Purim—eh, what Rebbe?"
"Pshew ! Pshew !" replied the guest briefly, his mouth full of stuffiings.
•
"It's no sin to pour oil in the lamp on such an occasion; Rebbe, is it?"
"Eh—tu !" replied the guest without stopping in his work of eating "a mitzvah!"
"To our General !" cried the host, raising his glass. "He was a brave General."
"What's to he said—a giant," replied the guest, turning the contents of the
And I obeyed.
"Ha! Ha ! Ha! The Sabbath song ! 1 Ia ! I is !" and the drill-sergeant enjoyed
the joke."
This was the start of a long tale extending over three whole hours. Ilow the
drill-sergeant said this, and the general said that ; and such and such an officer said
such and such a thing—the blackguards!
When Zimbal started to tell us of the past, he did not finish up in a hurry.
n t; and
From the drill-sergeant to General Skobolyeti—they all came up before hi
he spoke of them with excitement, as if they had really carried him about in their
arms; and with as much pride as if General tikoholyeff had been his own brother.
"But they could not make me an orthodox Catholic"; he always finished up
by saying "Chariton Zacharewitz can stand up for his faith."
And Chariton Zacharewitz still holds to his religion. The festivals are holy to
him. And on Sabbaths he is the first in "Shoot."
Sinn-has-Torah.
But he loves best of all the two festivals—Purim and
"A beautiful festival—Simchas-Torah," says Zimbal. "You take a drink of
Torah."
whiskey ; and you also earn a Ifitsvalt, Eh, friend, we have a fine
the
festivals.
Opinions
formed
during his
Zimbal had his own opinions about
barracks.
He
was
firm
in
the
belief
that
at each
thirty-odd years of life in the
Simehas-Torah the Jews got a new Torah.
The festival had one great fault in Zimhal's eyes—the reading of the portion.
Gabbai considered it his
He was very liberal in his offerings in the Shoal; and the
duty to give Zimbal the best portion to read.
When he was called up, his limbs trembled. He knew what it would cost him
portion. lie would much rather have
vain before he would get through the desk and say the blessing. Although he
chopocd wood than go up to the reader's
to the middle he was stammering. It was true
began fairly' well, when he came
him in his old age, and at over his books through
he had had a master to teach
At home, when the master helped him, it
whole nights. But it was no use.
to reading in public, he was lost.
seemed he was doing all right. When it came
"I can remember
''What sort of a curse is this?" he used to ask of his master.
I
cannot
recall
for
any
money.
your explanations all right ; but the blessings
"In youth, the memory is clearer," explains the master.
"The Sabbath blessings I can manage all right ; but those I have to say only
once a year—go and remember them !"
go,
But it was useless. When one is called up, one has to
how lie took Plevna
together,
remembering
. Chariton Zacharewitz pulled himself
reader's 'desk in the same spirit. On the way lie
storm. He went toward the
of keeping with his big body to recite
b began
egan in a thin voice that was altogether out
the portion.
the perspiration from his face, turned round
'When he was finished he wiped
on his heel and marched back to his place, distressed and put to out.
say. One only lis-
had nothing
Purim was alto gether different. One
tened
joined in the responses from time to lime. And this Zimbal could do.
Ilitlid
Purim as the most en-
So, it l came abou t that Chariton Zacharewitz looked upon
with delight.
joyable festival. The military aspect of it filled him
Schnorrcr On the scene.
._ This went on for years, until the devil brought the
The story runs like this:
donations
w h o w ent about collecting
, There came to the town a Lithuanian Jew
r f o
victims of the Vassilkover Pogrom.
were no novelty to Zimbal, nor did they give him much pleasure.
_ Such visitors
But on this occasion he invited the stranger to supper.
a Jew conic
the stranger. "Where does
from T halo
v oilint o l
Le ichem!" cried Zimbal to
glass into his mouth.
"He gave them all powder to smell, eh ! A smart man !"
"On a white horse," replied the guest, still eating rapidly.
"And Haman—Haman. I've got it hot from our General, eh 1"
"Haman? Prom our General?" repeated the guest in amazement.
"Yes, my dear sir ; from our General, Mordecai."
"Excuse me, sir. Eh? I thought you were referring to Skobolyeff."
"Ha! Ha! Ha!" laughed Zimbal. "Skobolyeff? Skobolyeff a hero towards
our Mordecai? What an idea?"
"Eh—eh! Excuse me, sir, may you live long, but the Jew Mordecai was no
general."
"Well, I never! What do you mean? What then! Was he only a corporal?"
"No, a minister."
"A minister? And rode on a horse? Well, Rebbe, you are only a scholar.
You do not understand these things. A general rides on a horse. A corporal
marches. In the olden times a captain too might have ridden a horse. But how
comes a minister to be in the saddle?"
"But, Mordecai," the guest started to explain.
"Very well, then, let us hear what this Mordecai was."
"Do I know? Perhaps in the beginning he was a contractor. Afterwards he
was a great man—the King's adviser—a minister."
"A minister? Very well. Then what was Haman?"
"Haman—Haman?" The guest could not find a ready answer to the question.
"Ha! Ha!" said Zimbal gleefully.
"Haman was a wicked man," explained the guest.
Chariton Zacharewitz felt that he was losing hold of his own little world; and
he caught on to a new name.
"Well, and what did Shushan do?"
"Shushan? Shushan was a town—the capital of the country—the same as this
town."
"Really," sighed Zimbal. "Haman was not a minister, but a wicked man.
Shushan was a town. Why was Mordecai not a general, eh?" He could not
understand all this.
"He was a minister, you see."
"Well, then, how came he to be on horseback?"
Zimbal began to feel sorry for the whole thing.
"The name of the king was Ahashueras."
"Right! A sort of governor. A minister and not a general, you say? Are
you sure?"
"Certainly not a general. Of course not."
"Where is it written?" asked Zimbal to make sure.
"Ha! Ha! I think in the Megillah, in the Holy Land."
On bearing the stranger utter these words, the Holy Land, Megillah, Zimbal
realized that it was as he said. These scholars—they knew everything.
He lowered his head. And as if he had been robbed of something very dear
to him, he murmured:
"And so it is—it is so ! Not a general at all—not a Jewish general !"
"Well, and what sort of a festival is it?" he asked, turning to the guest.
"Ha! Ha! It's a festival of a miracle."
"Only a miracle? What sort of a festival is that? It's no sort of a festival
at all."
From that day, Chariton Zacharewitz made no ceremonies on the feast of
Purim.
No more general—no more holiday.—Hcbrew Standard.