The Strong Ones

The heder, too often described as a place where innocent children suffered at the hands of a sloppy, ill-tempered teacher, was not quite that. What was wrong with society was wrong with the heder.

There was one boy who with constantly clenched fists kept looking for a chance to hit someone. Assistant bullies and sycophants surrounded him.

Another boy, for whom it was not practical to use violence, acted the little saint, smiling at everyone, doing favors, and all with an expression that implied immeasurable love. But in his quiet way he schemed to acquire things, to taste something wonderful for nothing. Pious though he was, he showed friendship for the bully while feigning sympathy for his victims. When his friend the bully decided to give someone a bloody nose, the little saint would run to the victim with a handkerchief while gently admonishing the bully, “You shouldn't have done that ... ”

There was another boy who was interested only in business, trading a button for a nail, a bit of putty for a pencil, a candy for a roll. He was always losing out on bargains, but in the end he got the best of everyone. Half the heder was indebted to him, since he lent money on interest. He and the bully had an arrangement whereby anyone who reneged had his hat snatched off.

Then there was the liar who boasted that his family was rich and famous and that Warsaw's elite visited his home. Promising us dates, figs, St. John's bread, and oranges from theoretical weddings and circumcisions, and a projected summer vacation, he demanded advance presents from all of us.

Then there was the victim. One day the bully drew blood from him, and the next day he gave the bully a present. Smiling with sly submissiveness, the victim indicated another boy who required a beating.

From my seat in the heder I saw everything, and even though the bully had punched me, I presented him with neither smiles nor gifts. I called him an Esau and predicted that his hereafter would be spent on a bed of nails. He hit me again for that, but I didn't weaken. I would have nothing to do with the bully, the priggish saint, the money lender, or the liar, nor would I pay them any compliments.

I wasn't making out too well. Most of the heder boys had grown hostile, informing against me to the teacher and tutor. If they caught me in the street, they said, they'd break my leg. I realized my danger. After all, I was too small to take on the entire heder. But I couldn't even pretend to be friends, so how could I make peace?

The trip to heder each morning was agonizing, but I couldn't complain to my parents—they had their own troubles. Besides, they'd probably say: “That's what you get for being different from everyone else ... ”

There war, nothing to do but wait, it out. Even the devil had to weary. God, if He supported truth and justice, must inevitably side with me.

The day came when it seemed to me impossible to go on. Even the teacher, in that hellish atmosphere, opposed me, though I knew my Pentateuch. The Rebbetzin made malicious remarks about me. It was as if I were excommunicated.

Then, one day, everything changed. The bully miscalculated the strength of a new boy, who just happened to hit back. Then the teacher hurled himself at the bully, who already had a lump on his head. The bully was dragged to the whipping bench, his trousers were pulled down, and he was whipped before all of us. Like Haman, he was punished. When he tried to resume his reign of terror, he was repulsed, in favor of the victor.

The moneylender also met his nemesis. The father of one boy who had paid out too much interest appeared at the heder to complain. A search of the moneylender's pockets proved so fruitful that he too was whipped.

The saint's hypocrisy was recognized at last, despite his whispered secrets and his flatteries.

Then, as if in response to my prayers, the boys began speaking to me once more. The flatterers and the traders offered me good will and bargains—I don't know why. I might even have formed a group of my own, but I wasn't inclined that way. There was only one boy whose friendship I wanted, and he was the one I chose. He was a fine, decent person without social ambitions. We studied from the same Pentateuch, walked with our arms about each other, and learned to write Yiddish. Others, jealous, intrigued against us, but our friendship remained constant. We were like David and Jonathan ...

Even after I left the heder, this friendship persisted. I attended several heders, and from each one I had retained a friend. Occasionally, in the evenings, we would meet near the markets, and walk along the sidewalk, talking, making plans. Their names were Mottel Horowitz, Mendel Besser, Abraham something‑or‑other, Boruch‑Dovid, and others.

More or less their leader, I would tell them things my older brother had told my mother. There was a great feeling of trust among us, until one day I had the impression that they resented me. They grumbled about my bossiness; I had to be demoted a little. They were preparing a revolution and I saw it in their faces. And even though I asked how I had offended them, they behaved like Joseph's brothers and could not answer amicably. They couldn't even look at me directly. What was it they envied? My dreams ... I could actually hear them say as I entered their domain, “Behold this dreamer cometh ... Let us slay him and cast him in some pit ... Let us sell him to the Ishmaelites ... ”

It is painful to be among one's brothers when they are jealous. They were good to me, they praised me, and then they were mean. All at once they grew angry. Turning away as I approached, they whispered.

Friendships with me are not casual; I cannot make new friends easily. I wondered if I had sinned against them, or deceived them. But if so, why hadn't they told me what was wrong?

I could not recollect having harmed them in any way, nor had I said anything against them. And if someone had slandered me, why should my friends believe it? After all, they were devoted to me.

There was nothing to do but wait it out. My kind has to become accustomed to loneliness. And when one is alone there is nothing to do but study. I became a diligent scholar. I would spend whole days in the Radzymin study house and then pore over religious works at home. Purchasing books from peddlers, I read constantly. It was summertime and the days were long. Reading a story of three brothers, I imagined that I could write too, and began to cover both sides of a sheet. “Once there was a king who had three sons, one was wise, one foolish, and one merry ... ” But somehow the story didn't jell.

On another paper I began to draw freakish humans and fantastic beasts. But this too wearied me, and going out to the balcony I looked down at the street. Only I was alone. Other boys were running, playing, and talking together. I'll go mad, I thought—there was too much happening in my head all the time. Shouldn't I jump from the balcony? Or spit down on the janitor's cap?

That evening, at the Radzymin study house, a boy approached me, acting as a go‑between. He spoke tactfully, suggesting that my friends were eager for an understanding, but since I was the minority, it was up to me to make the first move. In short, he suggested that I submit a plea for truce.

I was infuriated. “It wasn't I who started this,” I said. "Why should I be the one to make up?"

“You'll regret it,” he warned.

“Leave!” I commanded.

He left angrily. His job as a trucemaker had been spoiled. But he knew I was adamant.

Now that they had sent an intermediary, I knew that my friends were remorseful. But I would never give in to them.

I grew accustomed to being alone and the days no longer seemed interminable. I studied, wrote, read stories. My brother had brought home a two‑volume book called Crime and Punishment. Although I didn't really comprehend it, it fascinated me. Secluded in the bedroom, I read for hours. A student who had killed a crone suffered, starved, and reasoned profoundly. Coming before the prosecutor, he was questioned ... It was something like a storybook, but different. Strange and lofty, it reminded me of the Cabala. Who were the authors of books like this, and who could understand them? Now and then a passage became illuminated for me, I understood an episode, and grew enthralled by the beauty of a new insight.

I was in another world. I forgot about my friends.

At evening services in the Radzymin study house, I was unaware of the men among whom I stood. My mind was wandering when suddenly the intermediary approached.

“Nothing you have to say can interest me,” I said.

“Here's a note,” he told me.

It was like a scene from a novel. My friends wrote that they missed me. "We wander about in a daze... " I still remember what they said. Despite this great triumph, I was so immersed in my book that it scarcely seemed important any more that they wanted to make amends. I went out to the courtyard, and there they were. It reminded me of Joseph and his brothers. They had come to Joseph to buy grain, but why had my friends come to me?

Nevertheless, they did come, ashamed and somehow afraid‑Simon, Levi, Judah .... Since I had not become Egypt's ruler, they were not required to bow down to the earth. I had nothing to sell but new dreams.

We talked together late and I spoke of my book. “This is no storybook, this is literature ... ” I said. I created for them a fantastic mélange of incidents and my own thoughts, and infected them with my excitement. Hours passed. They begged me to forgive them, confessed that they had been wrong and never would be angry with me again ...

They kept their word.

Only time separated us. The rest was accomplished by the German murderers.