Pioneers: A Tale of Russian-Jewish Life in the 1880s
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Pioneers: A Tale of Russian-Jewish Life in the 1880s
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Overview
S. An-Sky’s novel dramatizes the dilemmas of Jewish young people in late Tsarist Russia as they strive to throw off their traditional religious upbringing to adopt a secular and modern identity. The action unfolds in the town of M. in the Pale of Settlement, where an engaging cast of characters wrestles with cultural and social issues. Their exploits culminate in helping a young Jewish woman evade an arranged marriage and a young Russian woman leave home so she can pursue her studies at a European university. This startling novel reveals the tensions and triumphs of coming of age in a revolutionary time.
“An-Sky brilliantly captures a week in the life of young Jewish intellectuals fleeing their tiny villages to find the possibility of personal growth in larger towns where the enlightenment has begun to work its way.” —Jewish Book Council
“Michael R. Katz’s translation renders another Russian literary gem into fluid and lively English. . . . The publication of Pioneers in English . . . appears at an auspicious moment, for readers today may be more receptive than ever to narratives that convey the richness, complexity, and diversity of Jewish life in times of dynamic and decisive change.” —Marginalia
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780253012142 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Indiana University Press |
| Publication date: | 11/01/2018 |
| Series: | Jewish Literature and Culture |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 165 |
| Sales rank: | 778,432 |
| File size: | 1 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Pioneers
A Tale of Russian-Jewish Life in the 1880s
By S. A. An-sky, Michael R. Katz
Indiana University Press
Copyright © 2014 Michael R. KatzAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-253-01214-2
CHAPTER 1
Watch out, you slob!"
The young man slowly making his way down the middle of the street jumped to one side and turned to look in astonishment at the driver who had just threatened him with a fierce crack of his whip. Coming to a complete standstill, he watched with innocent curiosity as the carriage sped away.
The young man was about seventeen years old. Lean and lithe, he seemed taller than he really was. His dark complexion and softly outlined features still retained their youthful freshness; his little mustache, which had just appeared and looked as though it had been sketched onto his face with charcoal, conveyed a sincere, childlike, trusting expression, while his large eyes shone with inquisitive incomprehension and enthusiasm. His threadbare coat hung down to his ankles and was unbuttoned, the flaps billowing out in the shape of two large wings. Instead of a vest he wore a caftan buttoned up to his chin and encasing his neck. His crumpled velvet cap had slipped down the back of his head, exposing a large shock of uncombed hair. Only his long peyes were tucked behind his ears. In his hands he carried a small sack.
This young man, who by dress, manners, and expression was identifiable from the first glance as hailing from a remote small town, was Elye Eizerman, or, in the local dialect, Elye-Shmuel-Khayes. The first freethinker in that town, called Miloslavka, he had run away from home to the city of M. In order to "quench his thirst at the life-giving source of the holy Haskalah."
In all, only a few hours had passed since, after the usual hardships and adventures of a journey, Eizerman had arrived in M., one of the secondary provincial cities within the Pale of Settlement; now he was wandering through its wide, lively streets, giving himself over entirely to many powerful new impressions.
Coming from Miloslavka, Eizerman had only a vague notion of what big cities, those "centers of enlightenment," were like. The only thing he knew and knew for certain was that in each of them there were "whole nests of freethinkers," large "groups of maskilim," who, without anyone's knowledge, "were up to unheard-of things." All along the road to M. he had tried to imagine the big city toward which he was heading, like a Muslim to Mecca. In his imagination the picture was somewhat unclear: first a tall mountain, something like Mount Sinai, crowned with luxurious palaces, and standing in triumphant radiance; then an underground room, large and spacious, like a synagogue, inhabited by groups of freethinkers with short jackets and no side curls.
The city turned out to be much more prosaic than the romantically inclined young man had imagined; nevertheless, its appearance and size, its opulence and animation, all made a very strong impression on Eizerman.
First of all he was struck by the two- and three-story stone houses, which seemed to him something between Babylonian towers and royal palaces; for some reason he imagined that such buildings could only house choral synagogues, the splendor of which he'd heard lauded in many fantastic tales. The large shops with their huge signs and displays of goods in their windows made an even greater impression on him.
"What an enormous city!" he whispered to himself with bewildered delight. "It's not even a city but an entire country, a whole world! Where do such riches come from? These shops offer everything 'that the mouth can name and that the ears can hear'! Each one must be worth 'mill-llions.'"
Strolling through the streets, Eizerman was astonished at the number of people there. The stream of pedestrians never let up. In Miloslavka, even on important market days, he'd never seen such a crowd. And here everyone was somehow special: all of them were dressed like lords. In Miloslavka, it was extremely rare to meet, among all the peasants wearing caftans of undyed cloth, even one or two "lords" sporting a coat or jacket. It was even less common to meet a man in a uniform with brass buttons. If such a figure ever appeared, he would attract considerable attention; he would arouse fear and anxiety as well as an outpouring of various signs of humility and respect. But here, at almost every step, Eizerman encountered cockades and shining buttons, yet the people around him weren't trembling in the least; they didn't even pause to look at these marvels.
It seemed especially strange and incomprehensible that in the endless lines of passersby he saw so few Jews. He could recognize Jews only by their long coats hanging down to the ground and their long side curls; anyone who didn't display these external signs, no matter how typical his face might be, appeared to Eizerman without doubt as Russian. Even those people who were definitely Jews, the ones wearing long coats and side curls, also seemed strange to him, not like real Jews, that is, like those in Miloslavka. The Jews here were lacking something characteristic and typical that Eizerman was unable to define precisely but that he clearly sensed. They even wore their clothes differently; they walked along the street and regarded the world around them in a manner completely unlike that of the Miloslavka Jews.
Eizerman couldn't understand where the enormous number of Russians in M. had come from. While he was living in Miloslavka it had seemed to him that humanity consisted primarily of Jews and that Russians were an accidental phenomenon, some sort of appendage to the Jewish people. How could shopkeepers, innkeepers, and secondhand dealers in Miloslavka survive if it weren't for the Russian peasants? And as for people wearing uniforms with shining buttons, to Eizerman they represented some version of the zeykher-lekhurbn: a dark force that existed solely to serve as a constant reminder to Jews that they were in Goles, or Exile. Yet here, all of a sudden, he saw almost exclusively Russians. Where did so many of them come from? What wind had blown them all in? What did they want here, in this center of freethinking, where a titanic struggle was taking place between the maskilim and their terrible opponents, the keepers of the old law?
One more peculiarity of the town struck Eizerman, and struck him unfavorably: the haste and speed the townspeople manifested in their movements. None of them, so it seemed, were walking; they were all running. Why did they have so little time that they not only had to run around on foot but even had to travel in carriages at breakneck speed? In Miloslavka, people tended to stand in one place, outside of shops, at the market, next to gates. When they had somewhere to go, they would walk there in an appropriate manner, without hurry or haste. They would run only to the synagogue for Slikhes, or to a fire. There was no fire here, but people were running....
It seemed crowded and awkward to Eizerman to walk on the sidewalk. Although there were relatively few pedestrians and no real crowding, nevertheless he felt as though someone would bump into him and knock him off his feet. In addition he felt oppressed by the tall stone blocks of houses. So he preferred to proceed down the center of the street paved with stones, on which it was so effortless and pleasant to walk. He moved along slowly, his coat unbuttoned, swinging the arm that held his sack, and stopping now and then to marvel at some wonder or read some sign.
"Here I've no need for a teacher!" he thought, smiling with pleasure. "It's enough to walk through the streets and read the signs—one can learn to read Russian very well."
Eizerman had no acquaintances in M.; he didn't even know the name of someone to whom he could turn for advice or direction. But this didn't worry him in the least. Only one thing was of real importance to him: the certainty that there was a "company of maskilim" located here who would greet him with open arms, make all the arrangements for him, and "set him on the right path." Of course, it wouldn't be too easy to find them: they weren't just living out in the open, where anyone could point the way to their "nest." Then again, he was nobody's fool! He had a good sense of smell and one way or another he'd sniff them out.
The thought of where he'd get established and how he'd make a living in this strange town was also of little concern to him. "They" would take care of all that! Besides, he had eight rubles sewn into the lining of his caftan, in addition to the sixty kopecks in his pocket. This money, accumulated during the course of several years collecting half-kopeck pieces, seemed to him like an enormous fortune that would support him for a very long time indeed.
It was almost noon. After a few hours of walking around town, Eizerman decided to "take action."
"Nu, Reb Ele?" he said cheerfully to himself. "How shall I begin? Tell me, you smart lad! Say it clearly, don't be shy!"
His first thought was to search out the synagogue and there begin his investigation properly. But as soon as he conceived that idea, the large synagogue in Miloslavka entered his mind: dark, uncomfortable, in the middle of a deserted, dirty, unenclosed courtyard; groups of congregants, the tedious drone of prayer, and Talmudic melodies.
"No, no!" he whispered hastily, shuddering slightly. "I won't go to the synagogue! May it perish! ... I'll find 'them' some other way!"
CHAPTER 2A shop with a sign in Hebrew letters drew Eizerman's attention: "Bookstore." Through the window, covered with dust and cobwebs, he could make out large piles of books tied tightly with string, stacked up, leaning against the glass.
Eizerman approached the open door and peeked in. Books, both in bundles and separately, lay in disorder on the shelves, the floor, and the counter. Behind the counter stood a Jew with a long black beard and a stern, business-like look. Titles of the usual uninteresting prayer books and other religious texts flashed before Eizerman's eyes: Siddur, Makhzer, Slikhes, Tkhines, Mishnayes, and so on. The young man's sharp eyes automatically surveyed these titles, looking for something else—and immediately came to rest on several small books lying on one remote shelf. Even before Eizerman had time to read their titles, he guessed, by their format and print, that these books were not religious, but "that kind." His heart began to beat faster. He walked right up to the open door and began to examine those books very closely. Now he could clearly decipher the titles: Maslul, Talmud Loshon 'Ivri, Moshal uMelitza ... All of a sudden the title of one book, half-hidden by another volume, flashed before his eyes: Hattot Ne'u....
"Is that really Hattot Ne'urim?"
Eizerman even recoiled a bit at this discovery, struck as he was by the unexpectedness of it, almost its improbability. What? On a crowded street, in an open store, in a visible place, this great book lay there so serenely, this extremely dangerous and forbidden book! A volume that was usually sequestered in the most secret hiding places, which, with careless handling, was capable of destroying its owner, of calling down on his head both earthly and heavenly thunder, this book was lying here in full view, resting peacefully, right next to the Makhzer and the Zohar—and it appeared to be nothing special! There was no angry crowd of pious Jews gathered around the shop; the shopkeeper, in his long coat, stood behind the counter, serenely, confident of his impunity!
"What a wide-open world!" Eizerman muttered in astonishment and shrugged his shoulders.
But if the world here was so "wide-open" that the most forbidden books were lying around for all to see, how could it be that the local freethinkers hadn't discovered this rare book and hadn't snapped it up? No sooner had Eizerman wondered this than it seemed to him that if he didn't buy the book now, at this very minute, dozens of hands would descend upon it and snatch it away from him.... But how could he buy it? It was impossible simply to walk into the shop and blurt out, "Give me Hattot Ne'urim!" It was inconceivable to deliver himself into the hands of an unknown shopkeeper, who didn't look at all like a freethinker. And so Eizerman decided to act carefully and diplomatically. He entered the store and asked for a calendar. The calendar was a neutral book that could be used both by a devout Jew and even by a maskil. After all, there are ever so many things a man needs a calendar for!
After taking the calendar and paying two kopecks, Eizerman looked around the store and, as if by chance, paused over the books that interested him. Pointing at them with an ambiguous gesture, he asked in an ordinary tone of voice, "And those sforim—are they also for sale?"
He used the word sforim intentionally to indicate that he didn't know what kind of books they really were.
"Did you think perhaps I was giving them away for nothing?" the shopkeeper replied dryly.
"No ... I asked simply ... because ...," Eizerman said in confusion. "How much does the Maslul cost?"
Having learned its price and that of some other harmless books, he picked up Hattot Ne'urim and, as if in passing, asked casually, "What sort of book is this? How much does it cost?"
"That's an expensive book; you can't afford it," replied the shopkeeper with displeasure; he took it away from him and put it back on the shelf.
"How do you know? Perhaps I'll buy it," Eizerman retorted, slightly offended, with a note of entreaty in his voice.
"It costs two rubles! Well, do you want it?" the shopkeeper challenged him disdainfully.
As a matter of fact the price struck Eizerman as huge. Two rubles—that was an enormous sum, almost a quarter of his entire savings. But could any price, no matter how high, be too much to pay for this book? Could the worth of Hattot Ne'urim really be assessed in rubles? True, he really didn't need the book itself. He'd read it several times already. Nevertheless, how could one possibly leave such a valuable book in the shop? He decided to sacrifice two rubles. But, persisting in his tactics, he exclaimed with naive astonishment, "Two rubles! Why so much?"
"Pricy? Just try to find it in some other store: go ask for this book! You probably don't even know what sort of book it is."
"What do you mean, what sort ... it's ... a book," Eizerman muttered in confusion. "I think seventy-five kopecks would be enough to pay for it ... well, maybe a ruble," he added hastily, noticing the shopkeeper's annoyance.
"Good riddance to you!" cried the shopkeeper in anger. "What a fine customer! A ruble! Do you know how much the rabbi would pay for this book?"
"The rabbi?"
"What did you think? A few years ago the rabbi ordered that all copies of this book be bought up from all the booksellers. He paid cash, one ruble and fifty kopecks, even up to two rubles. He bought around twenty of them and then, of course, burned them all The book is now terribly rare; you won't find it in any "warehouse"—and yet you're trying to bargain for it! I'm selling it for two rubles only because I don't want to keep it here in the store...."
"Well, have it your way, two rubles!" Eizerman agreed at once; the shopkeeper's story reminded him of "similar scenes."
Turning aside, he unfastened his caftan, ripped open the canvas pocket he'd sewn into it, and retrieved from it his eight rubles.
Seeing several bills in the young man's hand, the shopkeeper immediately altered his attitude and said in an obliging manner, "I have several other books like that. Lebensohn's and Gordon's poems, Mapu's works, and others ... I keep them all at home. I'll bring them in. Drop in again this evening...."
"I will, absolutely," Eizerman agreed.
And suddenly, unexpectedly, the question escaped him: "Have you read these books yourself?"
"Hey! Read all that?" replied the shopkeeper with self-control and, at the same time, disdain. "If I read all that, I'd become too smart...."
After a short pause he added, "I know what these books are all about—I know, but it's none of my business. I don't make anyone buy them—and they won't thrash me for someone else's sins."
Eizerman paid the money, hid the book in his sack where he kept his tefillin and his shirt, and got ready to leave. All of a sudden the idea occurred to him that he could find out the whereabouts of the "nest" of maskilim from the shopkeeper.
"I wanted to ask you, might you know some teacher, that is, a person who teaches Russian? You see, I'm not from around here; I come from afar.... And I thought ... I'd like ... I intend, how shall I put it, to study ...," Eizerman said, getting more and more flustered.
"A teacher? No, I don't know any," replied the shopkeeper after some thought. "A young man who looks like a teacher sometimes comes in here to buy books. But I don't know what his name is or where he lives."
"How could I find out where a teacher lives?"
"You can ask someone.... Ask a gymnasium student. Sometimes they give lessons themselves."
Eizerman vaguely understood the meaning of the word "gymnasium" but thought it necessary to inquire: "In other words, a schoolboy?"
"Fine, call it a 'schoolboy' if you like that word more," replied the shopkeeper indifferently. "If you call them simply goyim, I still won't object."
"Well, and where can I find such a schoolboy?"
"A schoolboy? There goes one!"
He pointed at a tall, thin gymnasium student with a knapsack on his back, slowly making his way along the opposite sidewalk.
"Which? The one over there with the white buttons?" Eizerman said in surprise. "Is he really a Jew?"
"I can't vouch for whether he's a Jew or not," the shopkeeper replied with a chuckle. "I can't even say if he's the 'son of a Jew.' His father's also not a full-blooded Jew. But you can be absolutely sure he's the 'grandson of a Jew.' Of course, you've heard of Rabbi Velvel Kapluner, blessed be his name. Well, this student is his grandson.... If the old man ever rose from his grave ..."
"So, I could go ask him? He'll tell me?" Eizerman asked hastily, seeing that the gymnasium student had already moved quite far off. Without waiting for an answer, he ran out of the shop.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Pioneers by S. A. An-sky, Michael R. Katz. Copyright © 2014 Michael R. Katz. Excerpted by permission of Indiana University Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Table of Contents
Introduction
Note on Translation
List of Principal Characters
Pioneers
Glossary
Selected Bibliography
What People are Saying About This
Katz has done a fine job preserving the multi-lingual environment and conveying the speech of those heder boys now turned into messengers of enlightenment and radicalism . . . pulling from his translator's toolbox the appropriate instrument to render into English the twang of the Russian-Yiddish-Hebrew creole.
Pioneers demonstrates An-sky's sharp eye for detail, his clear gaze–frankly sympathetic though often ironic—at these provincial Jews . . . This book is unique in offering in English this sort of picture of the experiences of an important generation of Russian Jews. . . . A unique work of art and an important document of its time.