“The Red Calf,” which we publish below in an English translation by Jacob Sloan, is an imaginative chapter from Mendele’s memoirs. It appeared originally in 1915 in the first number of Di Yidishe Velt, a Yiddish monthly published in Vilna.

For a time, because of the confusion due to the war, “The Red Calf” was thought to have been written originally in Hebrew, the piece having been included in a collection of Hebrew writings by various hands, edited by Bialik in Odessa in 1917. A Yiddish translation was even made from this Hebrew version, which was itself a translation from the Yiddish. And in Mendele’s collected works, “The Red Calf” is republished in both languages. (It is thanks to Dr. Max Weinreich of the Yiddish Scientific Institute that we have been able to clear this point up.) As it is, the internal evidence would indicate that the chapter was first set down on paper some years after the Russo-Japanese War of 1904–05, ten years before it first saw print.—Ed.

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The day I am talking about was one of those brilliant, balmy summer days when the sparkling skies are completely blue. Behind a graceful veil of green buds and flowers, the countryside was as pretty as a bride. Everything looked perfect. Yet I cannot recall that day without a sigh. Apparently fate had determined, like a lovely and contrary woman, to depress my spirits and fill my cup to the brim with bitterness.

I would not wish you the pain and the travail of that period! Our country was at war with a relentless enemy in the distant East. Two well-matched nations fought with equal courage. The blood of many thousands was spilled like water. It was before aircraft and submarine warfare, but even the backward weapons of those times managed to kill their huge quotas daily. Cities and provinces were wrecked, flourishing fields ravaged. In that frenzied hour husbands and sons were separated from their families and sent to the far reaches of the world.

My son-in-law, a young doctor, had been called into service with the rest. He had left his home, his family, and his practice, and had gone to Manchuria. There, amid the noise of battle, he bound wounds and performed operations. Meanwhile his wife, my dear daughter, had returned with her two small children to her parents’ home.

All her days were one protracted longing for letters. Where was he? How was he? She dreamed of him at night. But it was wartime, and what was a life worth? “All flesh is grass.” One fate for all, the bullet and the grave—for all!

During this melancholy time my daughter went into labor and gave birth. Imagine the paradox of our feelings: the sad joy, the rueful congratulations—publicly, a smiling face; privately, consternation. Pity intensified our love for the lonely mother and for the child born into misfortune.

I had no peace of mind at home, and there was neither peace, brotherhood, nor fellowship in the city. I was alien in a society where people were no longer respected for their personal humanity. Nationality, religion, opinions, the faction one belonged to—these were what mattered. Each faction tried to seize the revolving wheel of history and turn it to its will. Strangers became friends, friends were estranged. Each party thought itself the salt of the earth; party members rouged one another like whores; they were all of them tacticians and strategists, the Gideons and Samsons of their day. Wizards, politicoes, courtiers, they owned the inhabited world. We simple Jews, standing outside their Pale, were told, like the poets in Schiller’s “Dividing the Land”: “You cannot share our lot. The God of Israel, your Father Who is in Heaven—He is your lot!”

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Had it not been for the pleasure I found in my walks in the country, my troubles would have overwhelmed me.

I knew a certain farmer who owned a farm on the outskirts of town. He worked diligently on his land, plowing and sowing and all the rest with the help of his entire family, from the smallest to the largest. The men mowed and pitched the hay into barnlofts. The women weeded the gardens, milked the cows, set the hens, baked and cooked, washed clothing, and spread straw over the manure to protect it from the sun. And the boys and girls tended flocks in the pasture. At harvest-time they all worked together, cheerfully singing as they brought the sheaves to be trampled and winnowed and sifted.

I called this man “the Ant,” and his home “the Anthill”; following King Solomon’s injunction, I went frequently to the Anthill to watch how they laid up their bread in the summer. Happily I rejoiced in them, and they in me.

That summer I was vexed with the city, and vexed with my life. There’s a different air in the city: “wisdom crieth out,” society sends forth her voice—it’s the voice of wagon-wheels grating on stone pavements; of shouting and hullabaloos; gramophones and pianos and all sorts of domestic concerts; bells jangling outside; salesmen, peddlers, old-clothesmen, newsboys patrolling the streets, yelling their wares, cheating and being cheated. Poles after poles—strung with lamps, telegraph, telephone, and electric lines—stand stiffly at their stations, as arrogant as a king’s bodyguard.

In short, I was disgusted with the city: with its shops, banks, clubs, casinos, cafes, and whorehouses; with the mansions and pleasure-palaces of the wealthy on the hill, and the slums downtown, the caves and holes-in-the-ground, the unlighted rooms and cellars of the poor. I was sick of the torpid mass of grimacing personages—the leaders and followers, the two hundred and forty-eight sages, three hundred and sixty five fools, five hundred and eighty-nine pushers, and nine hundred and seventy-nine vice-presidents; the parties and assemblies and speakers and organizations and organizers and benefactors—and the seven classes of the poor: poor, pauper, indigent, mean, wretched, miserable, and stricken.

When all this became intolerable, I would go for a walk in the countryside, and my legs would take me automatically to the Anthill.

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On day at the end of such a walk, my friends ran out to meet me with good news: “The red cow has dropped her calf!” I reciprocated with my news: “It’s a boy!” Then we exchanged blessings. I blessed the red cow: “May she give plenty of good milk and cream!” And they blessed my daughter: “May she raise the child to luck, the canopy, and good deeds.”

At milking time the flock came in from the pasture. The cows all moved sedately, nodding their heads at every step, submissive and quiet like modest women. But the red cow pushed brazenly ahead, flourishing her tail as she ran and trumpeting hoarsely from deep in her belly. She thrust herself forward to be the first into the yard, completely ignoring the precedence due her elders.

The newborn calf was all red, except for a white star on his forehead. As soon as he became aware of his mother, he lifted his tail and skipped to meet her. Whinnying, he got down on his forelegs and suckled at her teats. The cow turned her head and affectionately licked the fruit of her womb. I shall never forget how she fixed me with her eye when, in stroking the calf, I passed my fingers along his throat.

That look meant many things: fear, that my hand, God forbid, might lie too heavy on the infant; pride, because she was proud of her darling; contentment, because one of the two-legged human beings who are masters of all the beasts was caressing her calf. “Who knows the spirit of the beast?” Perhaps, responsive to human moods, she perceived what was in my heart.

For at that moment my mind was teeming with comparisons. I remembered my daughter and her infant. I thought of the parallels between human being and animal: the cow, too, had emotions and intelligence; she, too, loved her child. While licking, she talked to it in the language of their kind.

Then I considered how animals and human beings differ. The cow gave birth, rose, and went on her way. My daughter, on the contrary, suffered birth pangs, and had not yet recovered completely. The moment the calf left his mother’s belly, he stood up on wobbly legs, waved his tail, and began to skip and enjoy life. No swaddling, ‘no bundling, no wrapping, no pillows for him—yet he’s perfectly healthy! My grandchild was born wordless; eight days old he entered Abraham’s covenant, and burst into tears at the outrageous pain. And now the bloody bridegroom lay on his back, swaddled like an insect in its cocoon, unable to locate his own arms and legs. As he grows up, he’ll be subject to innumerable aches and pains: tonsils and measles and all that. And the end of his days will bring intestinal disorder, piles, decay. . . .

I considered my old friend, the Ant. He was an uneducated pagan, ignorant of civilized “manners.” Yet he was content. I compared him with the “intellects” of the city. The comparison was odious!

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That summer day came like a guest asking for shelter after many days of cold rain and wind. How I welcomed it when I opened my eyes in the morning! I was drawn from bed to see what the day was like, and whether I could take the pleasure in it for which I had been longing with all my senses. I had been sitting indoors for many days, tormenting myself with worthless books about matters of no consequence. Now, when I saw the clear face of the sun, I said to myself, This is the day I have waited for. I shall go out and walk in the countryside.”

I thought of my friend the Ant, and of his Anthill. The memory of the red calf came to me, with the white star on his forehead, as he knelt on his forelegs to suckle at his mother’s teats. I was reminded of the scene when my daughter gave her infant to suck. The child would purse his lips to form a funnel, clutch at her breasts, and suck until he fell asleep. At that vivid memory I loved and pitied him equally.

It occurred to me that I might do my wife a favor. I could visit the Anthill and get some cream with which she could bake her favorite cookies. But I was immediately dismayed. How could I do it? Should we eat, and the calf go hungry? We should be snatching his food! I thought the problem over, and saw a way out of the dilemma. I would ask for milk from another cow! (I thought I was doing a good deed!)

At the solution I burst into song, first deep in my chest, a preliminary “bim-bam,” then gradually stronger, until I was trilling fortissimo.

My wife stared at me in annoyance. “What’s the matter with you?”

“I’m going to the Ant . . . for some cream . . . you’ll be able to bake cookies . . . if you want. . . .” I answered, stumbling with confusion.

“Why today of all days? What’s the occasion?”

“But we can both go! It’s a beautiful morning for a walk,” I said, mildly, trying to appease her.

My wife crinkled her nose. “The man has gone crazy! To imagine I can just get up and leave the hundred and one things I have to do . . . simply to take a walk!”

From the bitter tone of her voice (for my wife was naturally good-humored), I understood that she was in a melancholy mood. Her disturbance subdued me a bit, and I began to plan my day more soberly. People’s moods at that time were as changeable as air. They were like epidemic, communicable fevers. One moved from one state to another and back again, as the winter wind will veer ten times in one minute.

Suddenly there was a scream from my daughter’s room. The child had awakened crying. It proved impossible to quiet him. He did not want to be nursed; rocking the cradle, even whispered threats were of no avail. Our neighbors came and crowded round with their advice; one rolled an egg for his entertainment, another shouted to frighten him. But the child screamed on, kicking his legs, bursting and choking over his screams. My daughter wept, my wife sighed profoundly, and I was despondent. The child’s screams were like a needle in my flesh.

The newsboy rang our bell, and handed me the newspaper in the doorway. I skipped over the editorials and the day’s news; and turned to the lists of the dead and the wounded.

I staggered. Under the heading, “Seriously Wounded At Medical Stations,” a name resembling my son-in-law’s stared at me from the page. I peered intently, and found that one of the letters in the name was blurred. There was a speck on another. Perhaps it wasn’t his name! But my equilibrium was shaken. My heart pounded. Every bone in my body joined in a dirge. What a chaotic wailing was there!

My daughter and her little children! In my imagination I could see their father thrown carelessly among the wounded—pierced by a bayonet and dying.

I visualized the scene: human and animal corpses intermingled, headless torsos, fragmentary limbs. I knew in my heart it was true. Yes, their father was dead. That was why the child was screaming. He knew.

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I rushed out of the house in confusion. I was choking with emotion. Horrifying images flooded my thoughts. Alarm-calls in the valley of slaughter, blood and ashes, vultures hovering over quivering flesh, dogs gnawing . . .

In my excitement I had no idea where I was going. Suddenly the flash of scythes startled my eyes. Row after row, stalks were being cut down and were falling; the mower had come upon them. After the mowers came binders. They descended upon the slender corpses, piled and bundled them high like waves in the furrows of the field. Legions of surviving crops stood nearby, each with its distinctive height and color. The choice wheat, dignified, yellow and gleaming like gold; the flour-making rye, smallest of the crops, its ears like foxes’ tails; and the multitudes of barley-all alike waited in their places to fall victim to the scythe.

From somewhere among the graves the sound of wailing came to my ears. It was the voice of the Kaddish, an old bent tree. Solitary in the midst of the vast graveyard-field, he ceremoniously recited the prayer, clapped his palms and lowered his head to the dust. Small flowers that had escaped the destroyer, shelterless orphans, had fallen flat on their faces. . . . Oh my daughter, my son, my children! My heart was screaming. My impetuous soul carried me forward. I lost control of my senses.

I was awakened by a sound of rushing above me. I was facing the Black Sea. Like powerful horses breaking their stakes, the yellow waves leaped and neighed with rage. Pressing one another forward they beat against precipices, and pounded the rocky shore.

The anger of the sea relieved my frenzy. My turmoil could not be heard above the waves. The storm left me and mingled with the tumult of the waters, where it passed away. My darkness was swallowed in the vision of the deep. I was freed of passion.

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I took tobacco and paper from my pockets, rolled a cigarette, and lit up. The smoke curled upward in rings. A passerby, attracted by the smoke, came over for a light. He was carrying a copy of the newspaper I had seen that morning. I borrowed it and eagerly leafed through the pages in search of a certain name. I found it, clearly printed this time.

It wasn’t his name at all.

I gave the stranger my hand, and thanked him heartily for his generosity, until he blushed with astonishment and vexation. He was glad to be rid of me. He must have thought I was crazy.

I became aware of the odor of trees and grasses which the wind bore over the hills from the valleys and hillocks below. I felt vigorous, and of good heart. My mind let go the noisy city. A religious feeling seized me. I loved all things and composed a prayer to the Master of All, whose love is over all His creatures. The world was beautiful; people could be good. Tears came to my eyes. They were tears of consolation, and my anxiety fled.

Now that my mood had changed, I turned from the sea. The sea’s constant raging was foreign to my spirit, which sought calm, if only for a while. The sea’s vain rebellion eminded me of the weakness of all created things, which cannot come in judgment with Him who is stronger than they. When He depresses their spirits all hope is abandoned. There is no greater sorrow than to see a strong man defeated. Samson, who threw the Philistines into panic—does not the heart ache to see his downfall when, blind and weak, bound in brass fetters, he becomes their sport? I could not watch the sea at the moment of its furious defeat.

“No,” I said to the sea, “I am not your poet now!”

. . . I was drawn to still waters, to a brook I knew that flowed slowly and sedately in a fertile valley, under a forest of oaks. That valley, that spring, those trees had been my Garden of Eden during the springtide of my life. My young wife and I had spent happy hours sauntering there. On that day I remembered it again. Far from the tumultuous city and the violent Black Sea, I turned to calm quietude. . . .

On the way home I climbed up paths that wound through the hills. Then I descended, past summer homes, by trails roofed over with the branches of trees whose trunks were in nearby gardens. I passed during the gossip hour, when the trees were chattering and whispering and exchanging idle talk, as old neighbors will. In the intervals between derisive chuckles, they permitted sunbeams to filter through their foliage, weaving a silver-pointed golden network on the earth below. The air was fragrant with the scent of acacias, narcissus, teufelskau, bayleaves, cumin, and all manner of grasses. Birds were singing. It seemed as though all nature were conspiring to enchant me.

But the harvest was over. No crops stood in the fields. Their splendor had vanished; their places had become a pasturage for flocks. I smelled the city from afar, and grew depressed. In a short while I would be back in it.

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Walking ahead of me on the street was a man with an awkward gait, dressed outlandishly. A sort of wide red band was slung across his body, crossing his chest from his right shoulder, and going all the way down to his left hip. He walked like a stranger who didn’t know his way around the city. He would take a few steps, then hesitate and advance cautiously, looking carefully at every side. In a short time I neared him. I seemed to recognize him from somewhere. The band across his chest appeared to be alive.

Yes, it was! It was a young calf. Its four hoofs were bound and slung over the man’s back. It hung upside down, tail up, head down. The sunbeams were shining in its eyes, which, starting with fatigue, shone like polished glass. Its tongue protruded, burning dry.

Carrying the burden on his shoulders, the man entered one of the shops that fronted the street where he had been walking. Upset and confused, though I did not know why, I pressed after him. I screamed. It was a slaughter-house! Slabs of haunches were stuck on hooks in the walls.

The butcher presided in his white, priestly garments at the block—his altar. An axe was in his hand, and the bound calf lay twitching on the floor. A white star shone on his forehead. I was taken aback. It was the red calf, whom I had come to love, about to be slaughtered. He lay there dumbly. The sword loomed over his head, but he was powerless. In that flash I saw my grandson, his very age, snatched from his mother’s arms.

I began to tremble. Had it not been for the hired man of the Ant, the man I had followed, I should have slumped to the ground.

The hired man caught me. “What’s the matter?” he asked.

I couldn’t speak. I pointed at the calf.

The butcher, thinking I suspected him of theft or of accepting stolen goods, jumped up and swore that he had bought the calf. The hired man substantiated his statement: the butcher had paid a high price; the calf was tender, its flesh would be delicious, and the butcher had not haggled.

When he continued to recite the virtues of the calf, I stared into his face with rage, shook my fist at him, and ran out the door. I was beside myself with what I had seen and heard.

Many confused voices echoed in me. A suckling calf screamed from the slaughterhouse, a circumcised infant cried in his cradle, a young wife wept. Above all the rest, a cow bellowed. Poor creature, sobbing after her kidnapped child. She had left him safe at home in the morning. She returned from the pasture in the evening—and he was gone! I could see her looking for him with her eyes; breathing deep, she sniffed for his smell with distended nostrils. He “was not.” She dug the earth with her horns in despair, and kicked up clods with her hooves. Groaning, she called to her calf from her dark throat. Gone!. . .

I heard dead men screaming. Shutters rattled. Field and forest, farm and city—the devil take them all! The idyll was dead.

I admired the sea, that audacious, chained beast, who dares to challenge the moon. Valiant in ignorance, while I—

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Mutering to myself, I halted. A paw IV touched the hem of my jacket. I looked up and found myself in the yard of my home. My dog Hector had run out to meet me. He was dancing and jumping up to lick my hand. He seemed to understand that something was wrong—perhaps from my distorted face.

I passed my hand over Hector’s head and neck. “My dear Hector,” I said to him seriously, “I envy you. Your ignorance is your strength, like that of every dumb animal. Man’s intelligence simply humiliates him—it’s not worth it, I tell you! They were jealous angels who advised at man’s creation!”

“Hush! Stop that noise! The child’s asleep,” my wife scolded me when I clumped into the house. “Where have you been all day? He simply disappeared!” She looked at me more closely. “You look terrible. Dinner’s ready, and you must be hungry. We’ve a good, nourishing meal. Now you eat, and sober down. We’ve roast veal.”

“What?!” I roared, quivering in every limb.

My wife grew angry. ‘The man’s gone out of his mind!” she cried. “What in the world’s wrong with veal? Idiot!”