German fiction -- Translations into English; Palestine -- History -- Fiction
The yard was absolutely empty. The stalls contained a few dead cattle
and sheep, killed because they had been crippled in some way, while a
lame lamb limped off at sight of the mob. The carts and wagons, too, had
vanished. The lowing, bleating throng which the priests had imagined to
be the souls of the damned was the Hebrew host, departing by night from
their old home with all their flocks under the guidance of Moses.
The captain of the archers dropped his sword, and a spectator might
have believed that the sight was a pleasant surprise to him; but his
neighbor, a clerk from the king’s treasure-house, gazed around the empty
space with the disappointed air of a man who has been defrauded.
The flood of schemes and passions, which had surged so high during the
night, ebbed under the clear light of day. Even the soldier’s quickly
awakened wrath had long since subsided into composure. The populace
might have wreaked their utmost fury on the other Hebrews, but not upon
Nun, whose son, Hosea, had been his comrade in arms, one of the most
distinguished leaders in the army, and an intimate family friend. Had
he thought of him and foreseen that his father’s dwelling would be
first attacked, he would never have headed the mob in their pursuit of
vengeance; nay, he bitterly repented having forgotten the deliberate
judgment which befitted his years.
While many of the throng began to plunder and destroy Nun’s deserted
home, men and women came to report that not a soul was to be found in
any of the neighboring dwellings. Others told of cats cowering on the
deserted hearthstones, of slaughtered cattle and shattered furniture;
but at last the furious avengers dragged out a Hebrew with his family
and a half-witted grey-haired woman found hidden among some straw.
The crone, amid imbecile laughter, said her people had made themselves
hoarse calling her, but Meliela was too wise to walk on and on as they
meant to do; besides her feet were too tender, and she had not even a
pair of shoes.
The man, a frightfully ugly Jew, whom few of his own race would have
pitied, protested, sometimes with a humility akin to fawning, sometimes
with the insolence which was a trait of his character, that he had
nothing to do with the god of lies in whose name the seducer Moses had
led away his people to ruin; he himself, his wife, and his child had
always been on friendly terms with the Egyptians. Indeed, many knew him,
he was a money-lender and when the rest of his nation had set forth
on their pilgrimage, he had concealed himself, hoping to pursue his
dishonest calling and sustain no loss.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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