In the Land of Happy Tears

by Yiddish Tales for Modern Times

  “Mama, I want to pick some apples.”

  “What do you need them for? They’re no good. What for?”

  “I want to….”

  Mama asks Mihalka, and he brings the wagon to a halt for a while.

  Later, Hershele is even allowed to walk while the horse treads uphill, and he proudly walks in step with Mihalka, showing him that he’s a big boy, picking wildflowers in the ditch, running ahead and coming back.

  Near a field of beanstalks Mihalka himself now stops the wagon again, lifts Hershele off so he can pick some beans—but not from the roots, he instructs him. Picking the roots is a sin.

  Hershele has forgotten about everything. He delights in the new places, in the unfamiliar road. But at one point, catching sight of a fast-flowing silvery rivulet winding its way through a meadow, he throws up his hands.

  “Oh, Mama, I left the pike hatchling in the pool….He’ll die.” And he grows contemplative.

  And later still he trembles again.

  “Say, Haya,” asks Mihalka in Ukrainian, “are you taking your little boy to heder?”

  Hershele notices his mother winking to Mihalka to be quiet, and in Ukrainian Mihalka concludes: “Pity, still so little!” and gives a wave with his whip. “Giddyup!”

  4.

  Hershele arrives at Uncle Elkanah’s as if in a daze. His head starts to spin.

  Everything is completely different from their home, and there are lots of other children. It’s extremely loud. Some of the kids play, others fight. They immediately encircle him, look at him with unfamiliar eyes, nearly pawing him, calling him to play.

  He still keeps his distance, doesn’t leave his mother’s side for a minute.

  His mother says:

  “Go, play with the other children, Hershele. Why are you following me around, silly?”

  And she begins to persuade him that he should go to heder, that he should listen to his aunt and uncle, be a good boy, listen to the teacher, and study intently—then everything would be fine. “Go, Hershele, play with the other kids. The teacher’s coming soon. You’re such a smart boy.”

  “Come, let’s play buttons,” the eldest child calls out to him. “We have a drawer full of buttons.”

  And suddenly he sees a whole drawer full of all sorts of buttons: bowl-shaped, porcelain, coins.

  “I won this one,” says one of the boys, and shows a bowl-shaped button in the palm of his hand. “It took me four goes.”

  “And I won this one.”

  “And I got this one.”

  Soon the game is in full swing. Hershele is a good, skillful flicker. He hits a button with one flick. He forgets about everything. Nothing interests him anymore except to win as many buttons as possible.

  His mother brings some man over and says it’s the teacher. The teacher pinches his cheek and says, “Oh, a precious, precious boy. Do you want to study?” He’d somehow imagined a teacher looking altogether different—this one looks just like all the other people who come to visit.

  He says, “I do,” but only to be able to go back to the game: he was about to win a “bowl.” So what if that’s the teacher….

  He notices his mother whispering, now to his aunt, now to his uncle—no response. Mihalka comes in, whip in hand, and stands in the doorway—no response. His mother comes up as he lies on the floor playing, kisses him and smiles—no response. He hears a wagon drive off outside—no response. Suddenly he trembles, tosses the buttons, and flies out into the yard….

  His aunt tries to grab him by the hand but doesn’t succeed. His uncle stands there, at a loss, with half-formed words on his lips.

  “What—what are you running for?”

  By then, Hershele’s already outside. He sees the wagon with his mother turn into a side street, and with a shout—“Mama!”—he bolts after the wagon with all his might.

  He sees nothing, feels nothing. People seem to be stopping and calling out to him, “What’s the matter, little boy?” He tries to dodge them. And the wagon keeps driving away faster….

  In desperation, he runs with all his might, and his terrified call—“Mama!”—breaks out more and more frequently. He wants to collapse sobbing, but his little legs run all by themselves, and his heart tears the air apart.

  “Ma-ma-aa, take me with you!”

  But the wagon is far, far away….

  Suddenly he sees his mother turn her head to him and gesture, now to him, and now to Mihalka. It seems she’s telling Mihalka to drive faster while gesturing to Hershele to go back….And he sprints, stretching out his arms.

  “Mama, take me with you! Take me with you!”

  He sees the wagon stop, his mother gets out. He strains to run even faster toward her, and she runs to meet him. He is now lying cradled in her arms, the words “Mama, take me with you!” still pouring forth from his throat.

  His mother wipes off his sweaty brow, snuggles him to herself, and says:

  “You’re a bad boy. I thought you promised to be good and listen….Mihalka, drive back to his uncle’s….”

  * * *

  —

  Back at his uncle’s, everyone scolds him, both his aunt and his uncle, but the children look differently at him and don’t interfere in anything. He doesn’t care. He clings to his mother like a lamb, holds on to her dress and doesn’t leave her side. She no longer attempts to leave him. When she puts him to bed, she has to sit by his side and he holds her hand.

  * * *

  —

  He wakes up with a start, his eyes shutting tight from the sun, looks wildly around, and starts to call in desperation, “Mama! Where’s Mama?” He receives no answer, but his uncle comes in and says, “Shh, shh, Mama’s coming soon.”

  He asks nothing else and quietly lets his head drop. His eyes well up. The room and everything in it begin to move away from him and become distorted. For the first time, he sees the world through real tears.

  * * *

  —

  A few days later, Hershele starts heder. The angel throws him kopecks. He takes pride in his new pants with pockets, and plays buttons.

  Translated by Lena Watson

  One night, taking a lonely stroll around the sky, the moon all at once grew sad. It thought: “Why don’t I wake up one of the boys or girls—I’ll have someone to play with and will feel better.”

  The moon peeked into every window. Here it saw a boy sleeping and there a girl sleeping, but they were sleeping so soundly that there was no way to wake them. The moon tried to tickle this boy and that girl with a ray of light but could only get them to smile in their sleep. They slept so peacefully and so beautifully that they were even a delight to watch.

  The moon grew sadder and sadder as it strolled around all alone at night in such a big, wide world. It thought: “How good the sun must have it! It’s happy. It has people to play with all day long. All the children are on the street, and the sun plays with them. In the evening, the sun leaves to go to sleep, and the children, too, go to sleep. When I appear and the children are already in bed, and I have no one to play with. And when the children wake up, I have to go to bed already! Ugh! It’s no fun being a moon and staying awake all night while everyone is asleep, and sleeping all day while everyone is awake.”

  The moon moved on and on and peeked into all the windows and tried its luck in case somewhere there was a boy or a girl who wasn’t sleeping. Or maybe somewhere there was a boy or a girl it could waken, and then it would have someone to play with. But again it had no luck: all the children slept deeply, and it couldn’t wake them up.

  The moon then begged the children to get up and play with it. In return, it would give them belts of silver light-rays that would be even more beautiful than the sun’s belts of gold. It begged and begged….

  Children sleeping ti
ght,

  Children unaware.

  No one wants to wake,

  No one seems to care.

  When the moon saw that its begging wasn’t helping, because the children slept so deeply and couldn’t hear anything, it tickled them again. Maybe one of the children wouldn’t be able to bear it and would wake up anyway?

  It tickled one boy with its rays, and it tickled his eyes for so long that he really couldn’t bear it and he squeezed his eyes tight. He squeezed and squinted for so long that he woke up and opened his eyes. The boy looked around and wanted to know who’d tickled him. He looked and looked and couldn’t find anyone—Mama and Papa were sleeping, and no one else was in the room. The moon stood there, peeking into the window and choking with laughter.

  The boy noticed the moon and asked: “Was it you who tickled me?”

  The moon answered: “Of course it was! Can’t you see that everyone’s sleeping and I’m the only one awake?”

  The boy asked it: “Why did you tickle me?”

  The moon answered: “Because I wanted you to get up and play with me—because I’m bored being alone all night.”

  The boy said: “Fine, I’ll play with you.” He began to play with the moon. From her sleep, his mother heard that he was no longer sleeping, and she got up to ask her son: “Why aren’t you asleep? Why aren’t you in bed?”

  The boy answered: “The moon…” And he pointed at the window.

  The mother glanced at the window and saw the moon—a full and smiling moon.

  “Aha!” she said. “The moon won’t let you sleep! I’ll show it!”

  The mother walked behind the bed and pulled down the thick window curtains. The moon couldn’t peek in anymore, and the room was so dark that you couldn’t see a thing. At first the boy refused to accept that the moon had been taken from him, and he tossed and turned in his bed unhappily for a long time. In the end, he fell back asleep.

  The moon left his window, embarrassed, and went to another window. And there it saw another boy. That boy happened not to be asleep, and neither was his mother. The boy’s mother was sitting next to him. She caressed him and spoke to him with such gentle words that it was pleasant to listen to her.

  The moon peeked into the window, and just as it peeked in, the mother said: “Look, my dear, it’s the moon!”

  The moon wondered why the boy’s mother wasn’t shooing it away from the window, as the other boy’s mother had done. On the contrary, pointing to the moon, this boy’s mother said to him: “Look, my dear, what a beautiful moon! See how it’s looking at us and smiling? Can you see the little man in the moon? Can you see the nose and the mouth and the eyes?”

  The moon was astonished and happy that the boy’s mother praised it. But suddenly it heard the boy groan. The mother asked him: “Where does it hurt, my dear? Is your head still hurting?”

  The boy nodded ever so slightly and with difficulty said: “Yes….”

  The moon understood that the boy was sick. It took pity on him and inched its face closer to the window. It caressed the boy with its rays, and he began to feel better and smile. The mother, too, smiled.

  “See, my dear?” she said to him. “The moon’s playing with you. Play with it, play, my dear, play, and you’ll feel better.”

  The moon tried even harder to caress the sick boy with its rays, and the mother, too, caressed him. For a while, the boy was more cheerful and happy. The moon laughed and he laughed, and this way they played together all night long. At dawn, the moon parted with the boy and went to bed. The boy fell asleep, too, and slept well into the day.

  He got up and his head no longer hurt. He was healthy again and asked his mother for food. She gave him food and he ate everything. He sat down on the floor and played with his toys.

  At night, the moon returned to play with the boy, but he was already asleep and it didn’t want to disturb him.

  “Let him sleep,” the moon thought. “The poor thing didn’t sleep last night—he wasn’t well. Let him sleep tonight!”

  The moon hid behind a cloud so that it wouldn’t disturb the boy’s sleep.

  He woke up once, and the moon emerged for a short while with its kind and sweet smile. The boy smiled, too, and fell back asleep. The moon moved away from the window and hid again behind a cloud.

  Translated by Sandra Chiritescu

  There once lived a ruler who waged war against so many nations, aiming to take their lands, that he started running out of rifles for his soldiers. There was not even enough brass or lead in the land to make bullets.

  The ruler began worrying as the other nations banded together and prepared to move on his land. And he wasn’t one to surrender.

  He delivered a decree to his people, stating that in three days’ time, they all had to turn in any lead, copper, or brass metalware that could be found in their homes. And, out of fear, everyone brought their metalware, on their own, to the places where it was being collected.

  Among the poor people lived a quiet and graceful little boy with blond hair and blue eyes that were unusually lovely and intelligent. He was a curious boy who wanted to know everything in the world. He would look at each thing for a long time and think: “Where does that stream end up?” “What do those clouds way up high float toward?” “How do birds build their nests?” “How do flowers grow in the fields?” “And how is bread made, the bread I eat each and every day?”

  He also liked eavesdropping on adult conversations, and so none of them could stand him. But worst of all were his strange questions: “Why do some children walk around ragged and barefoot in the cold, while other children get to wear fancy coats and pants?” “What about the pretty dolls, toy horses, and booklets that fill the shops—who are they for if poor children, who long for them so dearly, can never have them?” “Why are some people poor and others rich?” “Wouldn’t it be better if everyone were equal?” Endless questions…

  This little boy had a small, lovely toy brass samovar—artfully made and decorated with red silk ribbons and fringed paper streamers—which his parents had bought him as a present for his fifth birthday. That was already two years ago—the boy was now seven years old. But the samovar was as good as new. It stood by the window on a special little table and shone in the sun like gold, so often did the little boy clean and polish it. It was his favorite toy of all the beautiful things he had.

  He loved imagining how his friends would come over, and the samovar would boil and steam, and he would pour tea for each of them from his own little samovar into his own little cups, and they would all drink and enjoy feeling like grown-ups.

  This is how the little boy played with his samovar and took care of it—as if it were the apple of his eye.

  While the copper and brass metalware was being collected from all the houses throughout the land, the little boy listened in silence and grief to the grown-up conversations about how the metalware would be used. He walked around quietly with tears in his eyes and an ache in his heart.

  He thought about his papa, who’d gone off to be killed in the war. He’d kissed the little boy and left, never to return.

  “What for?” thought the sorrowful boy. “Had he ever harmed anyone? He was such a good papa.”

  The morning when his mother gathered all the metalware in the house and prepared to take it away, she cast a glance at the samovar, but was overcome with pity for her child….She knew only too well what the samovar meant to him, how unhappy she would make him if she took it away. But neither could she leave it there, because if she were later found to have it, she’d be severely punished. The ruler was a hot-tempered person, and his guards had not a single glimmer of mercy in their hearts.

  So she reached out her hand to take the samovar. But the little boy threw himself onto the toy, clasped it tight with both hands, and cried out, beside himself: “No!…No!…No!…I won’t let
you take my samovar!…I won’t let you!” And he stamped his feet and threw himself around, as if in a fit.

  His mother took pity on her only child and left the samovar in his hands. “At least hide it so that it won’t be found,” she entreated him.

  The little boy hid his precious samovar in a good, safe place. But he’d take it out from time to time, whenever he was overcome with the desire to play with it.

  One day, the city guards went from house to house to see whether any metalware had not been turned in. They entered the little boy’s house unexpectedly, right when he was playing with his brass samovar next to the window.

  “Hey, you bad little boy!” they roared. “Playing with brass, are you?! You’d better stick to playing with the streamers, and we’ll put the samovar to better use. Now hand it over—quick!”

  The little boy flung his arms around the samovar and clutched it with extraordinary strength. He pleaded with the angry guards: “Have pity on me, don’t take away my samovar!”

  “You can play with something else!” yelled the guards.

  “I’d just as well play with nothing at all,” cried the little boy. “But I won’t give up the samovar. I know exactly what you’ll do with it!” And the boy burst out into such wails that even the guards were moved by his tears.

  “But there’s nothing to be done, little boy,” they said, stroking his hair. “We’re powerless. Our ruler has decreed that everyone in the land must give up all their copper and brass.”