Memories from My Life

Chapter 12. A Russian Grammar

From Kiev I took a wagon heading for Zhitomir. Few of my readers will still remember the long coach wagons in which the past generation traveled before the railroads spread across the land. Some twelve souls sat packed into the wagon, men and women together, one man in his fellow’s lap and one woman in her fellow’s, all moaning occasionally. One man complains, “Oy, my leg hurts.” A woman complains, “Oy, my ribs hurt.” And all together rain down vigorous curses on the wagon driver for deceiving them by claiming that only four people would be sitting with him in the wagon. The wagon driver himself pays no attention to all the curses and cusses that pour down on him, seated on high as he chants the lamentation “God of Zion and her cities, like a woman in labor”¹—for Tisha be-Av is approaching.

Among the travelers in the wagon was the writer Abraham Baer Dubzhevitch, of whom I had already heard, since he managed to explain through natural causes all the miracles and wonders in the Talmudic agadot. He was the first maskil I had ever seen with my own eyes, and also the first Jewish man I had seen sitting bare-headed. Until this day I could not believe that any man would dare to act in such a manner. He asked me about the purpose of my journey, and when I told him that I wished to begin to study at the [government] rabbinical seminary, he entered into a discussion with me. Throughout the journey, which took two days, we spoke extensively of different beliefs and opinions, of the belief in demons and ghosts and of the belief in tsadikim. A young Hasid who sat among us, with long, spiraling ear-locks, also intervened in our conversation and attempted to prove to us that the tsadik, imbued with the holy spirit, always knows the thoughts of those who come to ask his advice. But in general, he approved of my remarks, and more than once or twice he declared of me: this is a Litvak with a cross in his head!²

In the city of Korostyshiv, between Kiev and Zhitomir, the home of the tsadik R. Moshe Ḥayim, the wagon driver announced, to the regret of all the passengers, that we would be spending the night here, although it was still full daylight. As evening approached I went into the besmedresh of the tsadik together with the Hasid to say the afternoon prayers. After the service, I went up to the tsadik and greeted him. He returned my greeting and asked where I had come from and where I was going. “I come from the land of Lithuania,” I replied, “and I am traveling to find my way in life.” “Go in peace, and godspeed on your way,” the tsadik blessed me, extending his hand.

This event had a very strong influence on the Hasid. It could be for one of these two reasons: either that God approved of my desire to study at the rabbinical seminary, or that the tsadik is just like any other person and does not know what lies in his fellow’s heart. In either case, a wide crack opened up in the Hasid’s stronghold of faith. Were they wrong when they claimed that all the Litvaks had a cross on their brain? [ . . . ]

During my first few days in Zhitomir, I visited the teacher Eliezer ha-Kohen Zweifel, of blessed memory. I knew him from his books, which I really admired, and accordingly I decided to consult with him about my affairs. He was a charming, dignified man: he was about fifty years old at the time with a round and yellow beard speckled with a few white hairs, covering his cheeks and half of his chest. His round face and shining eyes exuded a spark of profound thought, while his pleasant voice and fine speech captivated hearts. Since then and to this day I have never heard anyone speak Yiddish the way this man did.

I came to him on Friday evening, about two hours before sunset, but our discussion continued until candle-lighting. At first, he received me coolly, but after I told him that I was a yeshiva student and wished to hear Torah from him as well, his face became both smiling and sad as he told me:

“But my son, please do not have any great hopes in this respect regarding the [government] rabbinical seminary, and I hope you will not forget in your years in this house what you have already learned. I, too, like the other Talmud teachers, hoped when we undertook this position to raise enlightened rabbis for the Jewish people whose knowledge of the Torah could compete with that of the old rabbis. But all our labor was in vain. A school headed by a gentile, for whom the Torah of Israel is alien to his spirit, will not offer any hope regarding the Wissenschaft des Judentums, either. And even me—I have already despaired of instilling a knowledge of our Torah to the students. It is sufficient if I manage to imbue them with a love of our Torah and of our people in general.” [ . . . ]

From Zweifel’s remarks, I realized that I would not manage to enter the rabbinical seminary this year. I hardly knew any Russian, and I would not manage to prepare myself over three months to begin grade four or even three [of the Russian gymnasium]. And they would not accept me to a lower grade because of my age. Thus I had no choice but to wait until the next year and to prepare myself for grade four. But now I faced the terrible question: how would I provide for myself? The little money I had was being depleted day by day. True, my needs were also very modest: two pounds of bread a day—three kopeks; one [salt] herring for two days—three kopeks; a kopek and a half a day for a kipyatok (hot beverage) each morning, made for me by the landlord’s cook, a kind-hearted young Jewish maiden who had seen my poverty (my room was open to the kitchen), and other petty needs, all added up together to a significant sum. In addition to all of these, I was obliged to change my wardrobe in order to meet the “spirit of enlightenment”—“to shorten the upper garments and lengthen the lower ones,” as people used to say at that time. . . . But what could I do? I put my trust in time. After all, people do not generally die of hunger, and I too, would not die.

I had a greater concern: the need to learn the Russian language. It is no easy matter to learn this language without a teacher or guide. The only teacher I had was Schmidt’s Russian-German dictionary, which I had already purchased in Bobruisk. The title page noted that the book belonged to D[aniel] Khvolson.³ I had already heard amazing things about Khvolson, albeit negative rather than positive. People had only one good thing to say about him. He would say of himself: “Before I was created [i.e., converted] I was worthless, and now that I have been created (converted) it is as if I had not been created.”⁴ Whenever I took Schmidt’s dictionary in my hands, my heart was pained: is this truly Enlightenment and its denouement [of conversion]? Initially I considered learning the entire dictionary from A to Z by heart; then I would not have to look up each individual word by itself while studying. However, after three days of reciting and physical exhaustion, I realized that this was not the way to reach my goal.

Russian grammar caused me much suffering. I had been raised on the Talmud, which asks of every word “what is the reason?” But Russian grammar in its entirety was revealed to me as a “word without reason.”⁵