The Rabbi of Worms. M. K. Hammond
came up behind him and shadowed his steps. He got closer and closer until Josef could feel the boy’s legs just behind his own at every step. All three started to chant, first quietly, but then growing steadily louder.
“Bastard, bastard, bastard . . .”
Two more boys joined the group, and the chanting became even louder. Josef did not dare try to run away because he might spill the milk, and anyway, they could run faster than he could. So he kept walking and tears began to fall off his cheeks, and the chant became, “Cry-baby, cry-baby . . .”
If only he could make it to the next corner where the old crooked man sat and begged, he felt sure they would turn their attention to that unfortunate man.
At last he reached the corner. One of the boys slapped his backside and sent him stumbling forward. He kept a tight hold on the basket and the milk jug, and only a small amount of milk splashed onto the road. Josef could feel the boys falling away from him but he dared not look back. Once before when he turned around and looked, the boys came running after him shaking their fists in the air.
He walked steadily forward for two blocks without turning his head to the right or left. After a few more minutes he saw the entrance to his house—only then did his taut body begin to relax. He passed the butcher shop on his left, then turned to lift the latch of the gate. He entered through an archway in the stone wall into a small unpaved courtyard, bordered on three sides by wooden buildings daubed with clay. Various shops occupied lower floors of the buildings, while Josef and his mother kept two small rooms on the upper level. He went into a hallway at the rear of the courtyard, climbed the steep, narrow stairway, and pushed open the door. There stood his mother with broom in hand.
“Josef, are you home so soon? I’ve not even had time to clean Frau Schmid’s house.”
“Yes, Mutti, I walked fast.”
“Well, all right then. I suppose you’re hungry?”
“Yes, Mutti.”
“Bring the milk over here.”
Josef set the basket on a small sideboard and carried the milk jug to a worn wooden table in the middle of the room. His mother filled a bowl with porridge and poured milk over it. Josef ate quickly and eagerly. His mother sat and watched and smiled a little when he looked up at her. Maybe this would be a good time to ask the question. It had been gnawing at him for a couple of weeks. But would she know the answer? He had never heard her use that word before. Maybe it was an unmentionable word, forbidden in the Bible. Would it be a sin if he said it? But in the end Josef’s curiosity would not allow him to keep silent. All at once he blurted out, “Mutti, what’s a bastard?”
He was not prepared for his mother’s reaction. Her smile instantly vanished, and she took on that sad look, the look he had seen many times before but had never understood. In silence she stared at her son while the color faded from her face. Finally she spoke.
“Where did you hear that word?”
“Some boys on the street.”
“Don’t listen to them.”
“No, Mutti, but what can I do?”
“Don’t listen to them.”
With that she picked up her broom and hurried toward the door. She did not stop to remind him of his chores as she usually did. She merely gave him a quick glance over her shoulder as she went out the door. Josef noticed that her eyes and cheeks were moist.
What was he to do? He had upset his mother, and now she would be in one of her gloomy moods for many days. He vowed he would try to be a good son and not do things that annoyed her. He would do all his chores without being told. And of course he would never again ask her that question.
Still, he had to find out what a bastard was, but who would tell him? Certainly not the boys on the street. They were the last ones he would ask. Could he ask old Wilhelm who lived across the courtyard? No, he might report back to Josef’s mother. What about Anna and Lotti, the little girls he played with over in the next street? Anna was eight years old, two years older than he was, and she might know the answer. Maybe he would ask Anna. He would have to think about it. But now he had to do his chores and do them extra well.
By noon, Josef had carried kindling wood and hauled buckets of water to all the shops in the courtyard. The baker had given him a misshapen bun that was burnt at the edges. On most days, Josef would have stuffed it in his mouth and devoured it in a few seconds, but not today. He decided he would save it for his mother.
She was already fixing their midday meal when Josef returned home. A pot of potatoes was bubbling over the fire, with a few carrots and leeks adding color to the stew. It was the same meal they had yesterday and the day before and every day except Sunday. Sometimes the pot contained turnips and cabbage, but always they ate boiled potatoes. Frequently Josef complained. But today he would not complain.
They sat down, each with a bowl of potato stew, and ate in silence. After he had cleaned his bowl, Josef said with some hesitation, “Mutti, I brought you something.”
His mother slowly raised her head and looked at him. Josef took from his sleeve the misshapen bun, now quite flat as well. He handed it to her across the table. She took the bun in her hand and stared at it for a few seconds until tears welled up in her eyes. Josef thought once again he had done something wrong.
“What did I do, Mutti?”
“Oh, Josef. It has raisins.”
“Yes, Mutti. I thought you’d like them.”
“But, Josef, it’s your favorite. You take it back.”
“Let’s divide it. You eat half and I’ll eat half.”
They shared the bun, though Josef’s mother pulled most of the raisins from her piece and pressed them into his. Before they went back to work, she put her arms around him and tenderly kissed the top of his head.
•
Some weeks later, as Josef was leaving the market square on a bright, clear morning, he felt the first warm breezes of summer surround him like a blanket. It was a wonderful feeling that made him want to skip all the way home. Of course he could not skip with his load of vegetables, so he began to whistle instead. He was turning his head from side to side, noticing colorful flowers blooming in upstairs window boxes, when he heard a sharp voice.
“Stop. Why are you whistling?”
He immediately stopped whistling but kept walking and looked straight ahead.
“I said stop! You better stop when I tell you to.”
The tall boy jumped in front of him and blocked his way. Immediately five other boys came out from doorways and alleyways and surrounded him. One grabbed the basket out of his hand. The tall boy demanded, “Okay, bastard. Tell me why you were whistling. Are you a bird, or just a bird-brain?”
Josef stammered under his breath, “I . . . I’m not a bird. I’m a person.”
“You hear that, boys? He thinks he’s a person!”
“He’s not a person, he’s a bastard!”
The boys pushed Josef into an alley and up against a wall. They crowded close around him.
“Who’s your father, bastard?”
“Tell us who your father is.”
Josef remained silent.
“Hey, fellows, he can’t tell us who his father is!”
“That’s ‘cause he’s a bastard and he ain’t got no father.”
“I’ll bet his mother’s a whore.”
Josef had never heard that word before, but he felt sure it was an ugly word. Tears filled his eyes and he cried out, “She is not!”
“Cry-baby. Look, he’s crying ‘cause his mother’s a whore.”
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