Yisroel Aksenfeld, "The Headband," in Joachim Neugroschel, trans. and ed., The Shtetl (New York, 1979): 49-107

Anyone familiar with our Russian Poland knows what Jews mean by a small shtetl, a little town. A small shtetl has a few small cabins, and a fair every other Sunday.  The Jews deal in liquor, grain, burlap, or tar.  Usually there's one man striving to be a Hassidic rebbe.

A shtot, on the other hand, a town, contains several hundred wooden homes (that's what they call a house: a home) and a row of brick shops.  There are: a very rich man (a parvenu), several well-to-do storekeepers, a few dealers in fields, hareskins, wax, honey, some big money-lenders, who use cash belonging either to the rich man, going halves on the profits, or to the tenant farmers and tenant innkeepers in the surrounding area.  Such a town has a Polish landowner (the porits) with his manor.  He owns the town and some ten villages, this entire district being known as a shlisl.  Some prominent Jew, who is held in esteem at the manor, leases the entire town or even the entire district.  Such a town also has a Jewish VIP, who is a big shot with the district police chief.  Such a town has an intriguer, who is always litigating with the town and the Jewish community administration, even on the level of the provincial government.  In such a town, the landowner tries to get a Hassidic rebbe to take up residence, because if Jews come to him from all over, you can sell them vodka, ale, and mead.  All these goods belong to the landowner, and so up goes his income.  Such a town has a winehouse keeper, a watchmaker, and a doctor, a past cantor and a present cantor, a broker, a madman, and an abandoned wife (an agunah), community beadles, and a caterer.  Such a town has a tailors' association, a burial association, a Talmud association, and a free-loan association.  Such a town has various kinds of synagogues:  a shul (mainly for the Sabbath and holidays) a bes-medresh (the house of study, for everyday use), and sometimes even a klaizl (a smaller house of worship) or a shtibl (a small Hassidic synagogue).  God forbid that anyone should accidently blurt out the wrong word and call the town a shtetl!   He'll instantly be branded as the local smartass or madman.

 A town is called a big town if there are a couple of thousand householders and a few brick buildings aside from the wooden homes.  This is a horse of a different color.  Here, everyone boasts that he greeted someone from the next street because he mistook him for an out-of-towner.  After all:  In such a big town like this, how can you tell if a stranger is a local?  There are tons of people whom you don't know from Adam.

 The story we are going to read took place in two towns:  One town is Mezhbezh and the other town cannot be mentioned by name.  So we will call it Nosuchville.  The two towns are forty miles apart.

 In a town like Nosuchville, who isn't doing well?  Only the bes-medresh beadle, the shul beadle or the community beadles aren't so well off, because ever since the Hassidim came along, the Cold Shul has remained empty.  At Rosh Hashanah (New Year's) and Yom Kippur (Day of Atonement), the tenant farmers come from the countryside with their wives and children to pray in the shul.  But the rest of the year, you'll hardly ever see the minyan, the quorum of ten men, there.  They have to rely on the "ten idlers," the ten pious men maintained by a congregation to ensure a minyan.  Hence, the standing joke:  "Who goes to shul?  The rain, because the roof is full of holes."  But no worshipers go to the shul.

 All the rich Jews pray in the bes-medresh because it's warm in the winter.  When peasants get together for a talk, they go to the tavern.  There they chatter and babble over vodka.  But Jews won't go to a tavern for drinks and conversation, so the best place for them is a synagogue.  All day long, young men and boys sit in the bes-medresh, they study a bit and the rest of the time they talk.  The whole town gathers there for prayers, and they also talk.  Some people talk while they pray or pray while they talk, the rest talk business, all kinds of business, they exchange news and gossip, and they scarcely pray a word or two--all this in the bes-medresh.

 The bes-medresh beadle is the right sort of beadle because all the householders are his masters:  when it comes to Hanukkah money, Purim money, and the collection bowl on the eve of Yom Kippur, they give him more than they give the shul beadle.  And when the householders go on a trip or come back, he's always sure to get something.

 And then there are the community beadles, they go around asking for alms, the victims curse the living daylights out of them and hate their guts.  Which leaves the beadles impoverished and degraded all their lives.

 Aaron, the town beadle, had a room in the bes-medresh, and there he lived with his wife Sarah.  In addition, Sarah worked as a nurse for women in childbirth, she would bring back cakes and quarters of roast capon, whole jars of butter and flasks of liquor.  While tending the new mother, Sarah did not forget her husband and her daughter Sheyntse, she let them enjoy the good things too.

 Aaron the Beadle was no ignoramus in religion:  Occasionally, he said the Sabbath afternoon prayer and he could also manage the beginning of prayers on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.  Once, in Yampelye, he had been a Talmud instructor, but an eye disease had forced him to give up teaching, so he had become the bes-medresh beadle in Nosuchville.  When he greeted people on the holidays, they always gave him a large chunk of cake--and on Purim, gingerbread with some fried poppy.

 Now Aaron and Sarah had a very beautiful daughter named Sheyntse, and she had just turned fourteen when our story begins, in the year 5572 (or, according to the Christian calendar, the winter of 1812-1813).

 The daughter of a beadle, a bes-medresh beadle, who lives in the bes-medresh with her father and mother, sees nothing but the cheated and they'll always find someone who knows how to pull the wool over their eyes and fleece them for it.

 Beyltse was given a proper funeral that night.  The seven days of mourning began on the Feast of Tabernacles, but Jews are not allowed to grieve as much during a holiday.  So when the feast was over, Dovid Smik, Braine-Dobrish, and Zainvil, together with the little baby and a wetnurse, drove back to Nimyevke, to grieve there and try to find solace in the fact that the little boy had Beyltse's face.

[That's enough out of Nosuchville.]

XIII [Mikhel Arrives in Breslau]

Oxman, a supplier for the Breslau Hospital, hired Mikhel for his staff, Mikhel would have to be near him all the time and in his lodgings.  Not as a servant, for in Germany you don't have to take your servants when you travel; in hotels the domestics serve you better than a dozen of your own menials (that's incomprehensible for us in the Russian-Polish towns, where, with all the inns, they don't know the meaning of the words service and guest).  No, Oxman took Mikhel along to purchase the supplies for the hospital.  Oxman had a German employee, a man from Breslau, but he didn't feel that he was all that trustworthy, so he had Mikhel join him to buy the goods they needed.

 When a young man comes to Germany from a Russian-Polish town, and especially to a big city like Breslau--how dazed he is at first.

 Mikhel had once traveled from Nosuchville to Berditchev, accompanying a bridegroom to his wedding.  A wealthy man in Nosuchville had taken the bright young belfer along to serve him, and had paid him eight silver ducats, plus a bonus of six silver ducats.

 What had Mikhel seen in the big town of Berditchev?  Ten Nosuchville mudholes together, fifteen times as many bedraggled women and bespattered men as in Nosuchville, thirty-eight times as many paupers yanking at your coattails, forty times as many horse-drawn wagons.  A shoving, a dashing, a chasing, one man scolding, one man beating, ten people arguing, five people shouting:  "How ya doin'?  What are ya up to?"  No one's got time.  One man runs afoul of a wheel, which rips away half of his kaftan; on the other side, somebody says to him:  "Mazel-tov!"  Tin alms-boxes clatter:  "Charity delivereth from death!" and women dance over to a bride with challahs and musicians across the street.  Jews with tall bamboo canes demand money for various charities, while a dozen men race past, yelling:  "Stop thief! There he is! .  .  ."

 Then all at once, Mikhel saw Breslau.  A city with no mudholes, no bedraggled people, everyone dressed like a lord, clean and lovely.  Even the stairs leading to large buildings are scoured, and none of the shopkeepers yell:  "Come on in! What are you buying?!"

 Even more miracles.  Supposedly, ten thousand Jews live in Breslau, and Mikhel hadn't seen a single one--like a Jew in Nosuchville or in Berditchev--until he inquired and found out that the Jews also dressed like lords.  He thought to himself: "How can Jews be lords? How is it possible?  When he went to synagogue on the Sabbath and heard and saw the worshipers, he went over to look into the daily prayerbook that each man held in front of him as he stood praying.  It was the same kind of praying as back home, but this was no Sephardic, no Hassidic prayerbook, by God; it began with:  "How good. . . ."  A man stood at the lectern, but he didn't carry on like a lunatic.  Each worshiper stood in his place, calm, quiet, praying earnestly, and yet they were all Jews.  The women were dressed like ladies, and they said "Good Sabbath!" to one another.

 The next day was Sunday.  Mikhel saw thousands of German men and women, old and young, in fine, festive clothes, strolling out of the town.  Where were they heading?  Not to a bes-medresh because there was no filthy bes-medresh in Breslau.  Nor to perform tashlekh, the rite in which men shake out their pockets into a stream to wash away all their sins for the new year.  Were they going to greet the governor or a newly arriving ruler?

 Mikhel caught sight of Avrom Zaks, the man at whose home he had eaten the Sabbath meal, and he too was dressed like an aristocrat, as was his wife.  Like everyone else, they were walking out of the town, so Mikhel strode over to them and asked:

 "Where is everyone going?"

 "Come along, Mr. Pole," said the man.  "You can treat us!"

 Although he didn't understand what Zaks meant, Mikhel followed at their heels, until they came to a long, vast garden.  All the lords and ladies, and even the children, were entering through the gate.  Mikhel heard some of the older Jews the ones he had seen praying so earnestly in synagogue, call it:  "Liebich's Gorten."  (They used the Yiddish word for garden.)  The young couple he was walking with said to him in German:

 "Well, Mr. Pole, here is the garden.  Would you like to treat us?"

 Mikhel saw that what the older Jews called a gorten (which was Yiddish), the younger ones called a Garten (which was German).  "A garden," he thought to himself.  "What do I need a garden for?  Corn, cucumbers, and beets, or maybe cherries, sour cherries, or pears, plums, or apples?"  But he nodded his head:

 "Yes...."

 "Or would you rather not? . . .

 The man with whom he had eaten the Sabbath meal pulled him along and winked at his wife, who also tugged him inside.  Mikhel entered through the beautiful gates of the garden, along with all the lords and ladies, and he removed his hat.  (He had put away his spodek, his high fur headpiece, on coming to Breslau and had purchased a hat.)  The man and his wife laughed and pointed out that all the men were wearing their hats, so that Mikhel could keep his on.

 Here, in the garden, in Liebich's Garden, Mikhel saw that there were no beets and no corn, not even plums or pears.  But what did the garden have?  In front, there was a huge square, with all sorts of beautiful plants, autumnal vegetation.  Further on, there were small and large trees, very beautiful, in either rows or circles.  And in between the trees, there were small tables and chairs.  So many of these tables were already occupied by ladies and gentlemen.  Some of them, Mikhel saw, were sipping coffee and paying only half a gulden to the waiter who brought the tray with the cups, the coffeepot, a small pitcher of milk, and sugar.  At other tables, ladies and gentlemen were sitting with their children, they were drinking beer from lovely glasses and paying even less.

 "God, it's so cheap!" thought Mikhel to himself:  "In Nosuchville, even a glass of stale mead costs more than that."

 "Okay, over here," said Mikhel to the small waiters who were carrying around coffee or beer.  "Hey, waiter! Bring coffee and beer!"

 The waiter didn't seem to understand what Mikhel said, but he did catch the two words:  "Coffee, beer!"  And he saw Mikhel pointing to the table where the couple was sitting.  A minute later, the German waiter in the green jacket strode over, with a tray containing coffee, milk, sugar, and cups on one arm, and a tray containing a corked bottle of beer and glasses on his other arm.  He swiftly put everything down on the table and pulled out the cork, saying:

 "Here you are!"

 He was already off and bringing orders to another table.  Several such small, green-clad waiters were hurrying about, carrying trays of refreshments to the patrons.  There were perhaps twenty fine, dextrous waiters.  In the middle of the garden stood a platform, something like the kind from which the Torah is read in synagogue (if you'll excuse the blasphemous comparison).  There were some twenty men on the platform, playing violins and flutes and other instruments, and so effectively that the music could be heard all the way across the garden.

 Mikhel couldn't believe that no wedding was being celebrated.  And he couldn't figure out why the musicians were playing and no one was dancing.

 Mikhel saw that Avrom Zaks and his wife were drinking coffee, so he helped himself to the beer.  It was cold and delicious, a lot tastier than the March ale he had drunk at the wedding in Berditchev.  When the waiter noticed they were done, he said only one word:

 "Geld!" (Money.)

 Mikhel put down a Polish gulden and received a few coins as change.  The waiter cleared the table and hurried off.  The musicians kept playing different pieces, but they always played them beautifully.  However, no one was dancing.

"These Germans are meshugge!"  Mikhel thought to himself.

 Avrom Zaks and his lovely wife went for a stroll through the garden.  One of the musicians came towards them with a tray.  There was a sheet of music paper on it.  Avrom Zaks motioned to Mikhel to put his change from the gulden on the tray.  The musician thanked him and went on.  Other people likewise gave him money.  Some gave him nothing and waved their hands.  That was all right too.

 Mikhel couldn't get over all these great wonders.  Just think!  For one Polish gulden, he was in Paradise among gentlemen and such lovely, radiant ladies!  He had drunk beer and treated Avrom Zaks and his lovely wife to coffee.  He was listening to musicians, and they were playing a thousand times better than Yitsikel Livak in Nosuchville.  He strolled about in Paradise for two whole hours.  And it all cost only one Polish gulden.  That was what life was all about, wasn't it! "Back home, the people live like pigs!" said Mikhel to himself.

 Sunday evening, Commissioner Khlyebov had gotten Oxman the contractor to hire Mikhel.  On Monday morning, Mikhel entered Oxman's two big, lovely rooms at the inn.  One room was a chamber with a lovely clean bed and bedding in shiny-white slipcovers.  Next to the bed stood a small table with a large porcelain basin, a porcelain jug filled with water, a bar of soap, and a comb, and next to it a clean white towel.  There were also a couple of chairs in the chamber.  The other room was more spacious, it had a large mirror, a bureau, a lovely sofa, and six fine chairs.  A big, lovely table, plus a small ecritoire with paper, ink, and a quill lying on it.  In front of the two rooms there was something like a vestibule, containing boots and brushes.  Here you hung up your coat or jacket before entering.

 When Mikhel arrived in Oxman's quarters on Monday morning, he found him writing.  Mikhel saw an attractive chambermaid bring in a tray of coffee, milk, and sugar and say:  "Good morning!"  Oxman put away his writing utensils and, as he began sipping his coffee, he motioned to his bed in the other room.  The lovely young chambermaid hurried out and then returned a minute later, carrying a basket of fresh white linen, and changed the linen on Oxman's bed.  She put the used linen in her basket.  She also picked up the coffee tray, curtseyed, and asked:

 "Will there be anything else, Herr Oxman?"

 Mikhel gaped in amazement:

 "How fast, how promptly everything gets done, and how respectful the people are!"

 Oxman could appreciate that a Jew from a Russian-Polish shtetl would be flabbergasted at all these things or else believe that Oxman was paying a hundred ducats a day.  He said to Mikhel:

 "Would you like coffee? Why don't you order some?"

 Mikhel replied:

 "No, thank you.  Karp Semyonovitch wouldn't let me go without having me drink some tea first."

 It was only now that Oxman said: "No, Caroline, the gentleman is not having coffee."

 The girl left.

 "Mikhel," Oxman said when she was gone, "you must be wondering how much I pay for these rooms, isn't that so?  Well, these beautiful rooms, with the bed, and with fresh white linen every week, with all the chairs and tables, and all these marvelous things you see, and . . . there's even a key hanging there, for a very clean toilet, if you'll excuse me.  I pay only eight good groschens, that's two Polish guldens a day.  Which adds up to nine rubles a month.  I've got an apartment that I needn't be ashamed of, and I can receive corporals and even generals here.  For my business I have to have attractive lodgings, and I can't be bothered with carrying bed linen around when I travel.  You have to pay more for freight than for your own fare.  And the chambermaid serves twenty guests in the inn, each in his rooms.  When I go out to take care of my business, I leave the key with the maid, and she sweeps and cleans the place till it glistens like gold.  I can leave money here uncounted, and not a kopek will be missing.  When I come back, my key is hanging downstairs with the innkeeper.  I pay half a Polish gulden for coffee, and anything a guest may need is written on a board" (he pointed to a board hanging on the wall) "along with the price.  So I can keep my own account of what I get from the innkeeper and what I owe him.  And the innkeeper is very amenable.  Germans are good at figures.  Who knows how long it will take our abominable little towns in Russian Poland to start doing business in this way and keeping accounts like this! We'll have to wait a long, long time."

 Mikhel shook his head.

 "No.  It'll never happen back home, I can tell you.  Unless all the Jews in Russian Poland are forced to spend a couple of years over here, then they might learn from the example.  If someone were to come here and then go back and tell them about it, they wouldn't believe him and they'd make fun of him."

 "Making fun of people like that," replied Oxman, "is something our Jews have learned from those awful Hassids and their con men, the Hassidic rebbes and tsaddiks.  They've made Jews so arrogant.  You don't realize, Mikhel, that the Talmud praises Jews for three virtues:  modesty, compassion, and charity.  It says:  'Those who are modest are compassionate and charitable.'  As for the first quality, the Hassids have given the lie to Jewish modesty.  They're pushy and arrogant!  They never address an elderly Jew politely as 'Reb' (Mister).  With those louts, it's always:  'Hey you! Shmuel!'  That's how they talk to an old gentleman of eighty.  Except for their rebbe, they care about nothing.  Compassion or charity for anyone who's not a Hassid is something they regard as sinful.  That's why before Hassids and the plague of Hassidic rebbes spread among Jews, you could tell them:  'Brothers, what you're doing isn't right.  Look at older countries and learn finer ways, more intelligent customs, and a method of livelihood.  It costs less and it makes for a better life.'  They understood and they went along with it.  Little by little, they got rid of old windows with curtains and other nonsense.  And they heeded the advice.  The arrogant Hassids poke fun at everything and everybody.  They have to be absolutely ignorant and incapable, and the rebbes even say quite plainly:  All that counts is being a Hassid and believing that the rebbe has one foot here on earth and the other foot above the angels' heads so that he can reach the button on God's trousers.  That's all a Jew should be able to do, everything else is crap!  This is the worst misfortune for the Jews in Russian Poland.  Jews get more and more crippled every day, they can't even learn how to read and write Yiddish, they're simply arrogant.  Why can't Rabbi R. even sign his own name--doesn't he make a mint?  Thousands of silver rubles come pouring into his home.  'Well, here you are!' says every Hassid. . . .  Mikhel, the silly Jews are going to make us forget our sick soldiers.  Come to the hospital with me and I'll introduce you to the German.  You'll always go shopping with him and buy everything that's needed for the hospital.  And I'll introduce you to the man to whom you have to deliver all your purchases.  Every evening, you're to give him a bill for all the things you've bought.

 "I'll take Khlyebov's word that you're an honest man.  I don't really trust my German.  I'll pay you two hundred rubles a month.  Try and buy cheap so that I can compare with the prices the German has been handing me.  If you can get me better prices, then you can be sure that I'll reward you over and above your salary.  Let's go!"

 Mikhel had listened carefully to everything.  He was even more astonished at finding a man who regarded the rebbes as ignorant and arrogant liars and anything but what he always heard in Nosuchville.

 He went out with Oxman, and on the way he mulled over everything that Oxman had said.  At the hospital, Mikhel understood all his tasks and he became a fine steward.