Simon Eichelkatz; The Patriarch. Two Stories of Jewish LifeFrank, Ulrich
Religion
Simon Eichelkatz; The Patriarch. Two Stories of Jewish Life
Frank, Ulrich
Jewish fiction; Jews -- Fiction
Weisse, hoefliche Manschetten,
Ach wenn sie nur Herzen haetten,
Herzen in der Brust und Liebe,--wahre Liebe in den Herzen,
Denn mich toetet ihr Gesinge von erlogenen Liebesschmerzen.
Perhaps such principles produce loneliness; but they strengthen one; at
all events they do not embitter the mind and spirit, as some maintain. I
have never been sadder than in the midst of many people, among whom I
did not find--one human being! And nothing has a happier influence on me
than to find a human being where I least expect one--Simon Eichelkatz,
for example.
Yesterday, after an interval of several days, I went to see him late in
the evening. I was worn out and unnerved by my official visit to a
neighboring place, the centre of the Silesian coal-mining district. Two
workmen had gotten into a fight in a tavern, and the host, in trying to
separate them and smooth over their differences, himself became enraged
and threw out the more aggressive of the two. The reeling, sodden wretch
lost his balance, and, tumbling down the steps, knocked his head on a
stone. His skull was crushed, and he died in a few minutes from
contusion of the brain. When I reached the spot, a mob of wild, excited
forms had gathered about the scene of the drama. Policemen stood on
guard; and a cloth covered the corpse, which was not to be disturbed
until after an inspection by the officials of the locality. I could do
nothing more than affirm that the victim was dead, the examination
showed that death had occurred as a result of a fall caused by violent
mishandling. The author of the deed was a Jew. He was immediately
imprisoned, and with great difficulty was withdrawn from the summary
lynch-justice of the enraged crowd. Defrauded of the prisoner, they
turned against his family and his property. The windows of his house
were smashed in; the shop was utterly destroyed, and the whisky--that
ruinous, unholy "dispeller of cares "--flowed from the casks into the
street. His wife and children tried to save their goods and possessions
from the fury of the vandals, but received kicks and blows for their
efforts. It was a horrid scene. The policemen did not succeed in
restoring order and quiet for some time. Is it possible they had not
received sufficient power from the authorities? Was there some other
reason? At any rate I had to interpose and try to allay the turmoil. At
last the crowd dispersed; but ever and again the echo reached my ears of
assassin--murderer--Jew--assassin--dirty thief--cheat--Jew--Jew--liar.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
Reviews
Reviews
No reviews yet
Be the first to share your thoughts on this work.
Join the Discussion
Join the discussion
Sign in to leave a comment or review.
Sign InorCreate an account