had learned much from the animals they had observed there.
We did not yet realize that the children had created a new language. Their language emerged from their very being, from the way they stood or sat, sang or spoke. It was straightforward, and it hid nothing.
CHICO WAS THEN seven years old, and his memory astounded his audience. His handler eventually taught him to tell stories, and he would perform them without slipping up at all. But the streetwise handler quickly understood that Chico was a gold mine, and he acted accordingly. He taught Chicosome of the psalms and the Kaddish. He taught him to pray in the old-fashioned way, for the handler was himself a cantor’s son.
Within a short time, Chico knew the verses by heart, and he soon overshadowed all the other children in the troupe. He always appeared at the end and stole the show. Chico’s prayer was admittedly different from anything that had ever been heard before. Neither a lamentation nor a supplication, it was an utterly simple devotion known only to our forefathers.
All eyes were fixed on Chico. He gave them what they needed at that moment: a little of that sense of belief that they had almost forgotten, a connection to the dear ones they had lost. It was hard to know if Chico understood what was coming out of his mouth. In any case, his prayer was so lucid and artless and pure that people hearing it wept like children.
Because Chico was such a success, his fellows in the troupe stopped appearing, and Chico’s act filled the entire evening. “He’s just a baby,” people said. “He’s a
Wunderkind
, a prodigy, a reincarnation. In your entire life, have you ever seen a child of seven who knew the entire prayer book by heart?!”
His handler raked in the cash and hustled his little troupe from place to place. Chico appeared evening after evening, and sometimes during the day as well. The handler took care to provide him with food and drink, and if Chico refused to eat, he would reprimand and force him. Chico ate and grew fat. But, wonder of wonders, despite growing fat and despite having to give so many performances, Chico didn’t lose the purity of his prayer.
From week to week, his voice became purer. Anyone who heard Chico once would be drawn to him again. And so it went on for the entire summer. In the winter the handlerfixed up an abandoned hut, filled it with benches, and posted a guard at the entrance. He was sure that now his earnings would only increase.
But the hut, which had held out great promise, didn’t bring luck. On the opening night Chico caught a cold, took to his bed, and burned with fever. His fever raged on for two weeks, and when he finally rose from his sickbed, the prayers had been erased from his memory. In vain did the handler try to teach them to him all over again. A blue, bewildered sort of gaze now settled in Chico’s eyes, as if he didn’t understand what people were saying to him.
“Chico! Chico!” The handler would shake him. But Chico was never the same again.
Out of sheer desperation, the handler put Amalia and her partner back onstage, with the child who played the harmonica. They were excellent, surpassing themselves, but they were unable to compete with Chico. “Where’s Chico?” rumbled the audience. The handler had no choice but to put him onstage, so that everyone could see that he was still alive. But Chico, who only a month ago had climbed nimbly onto the stage and launched straight into a prayer, stood there frozen. His blue eyes were filled with a frighteningly vacant expression.
And thus was Chico’s star extinguished. Amalia and her partner and the other members of the troupe made tremendous efforts, but people were not prepared to pay a lot of money for their performances. At night the handler would blast Chico for his laziness and for not even trying to make an effort. Finally, he threatened to send him to Palestine, where it was tremendously hot and people worked from morning till night.
We did not yet realize that the children had created a new language. Their language emerged from their very being, from the way they stood or sat, sang or spoke. It was straightforward, and it hid nothing.
CHICO WAS THEN seven years old, and his memory astounded his audience. His handler eventually taught him to tell stories, and he would perform them without slipping up at all. But the streetwise handler quickly understood that Chico was a gold mine, and he acted accordingly. He taught Chicosome of the psalms and the Kaddish. He taught him to pray in the old-fashioned way, for the handler was himself a cantor’s son.
Within a short time, Chico knew the verses by heart, and he soon overshadowed all the other children in the troupe. He always appeared at the end and stole the show. Chico’s prayer was admittedly different from anything that had ever been heard before. Neither a lamentation nor a supplication, it was an utterly simple devotion known only to our forefathers.
All eyes were fixed on Chico. He gave them what they needed at that moment: a little of that sense of belief that they had almost forgotten, a connection to the dear ones they had lost. It was hard to know if Chico understood what was coming out of his mouth. In any case, his prayer was so lucid and artless and pure that people hearing it wept like children.
Because Chico was such a success, his fellows in the troupe stopped appearing, and Chico’s act filled the entire evening. “He’s just a baby,” people said. “He’s a
Wunderkind
, a prodigy, a reincarnation. In your entire life, have you ever seen a child of seven who knew the entire prayer book by heart?!”
His handler raked in the cash and hustled his little troupe from place to place. Chico appeared evening after evening, and sometimes during the day as well. The handler took care to provide him with food and drink, and if Chico refused to eat, he would reprimand and force him. Chico ate and grew fat. But, wonder of wonders, despite growing fat and despite having to give so many performances, Chico didn’t lose the purity of his prayer.
From week to week, his voice became purer. Anyone who heard Chico once would be drawn to him again. And so it went on for the entire summer. In the winter the handlerfixed up an abandoned hut, filled it with benches, and posted a guard at the entrance. He was sure that now his earnings would only increase.
But the hut, which had held out great promise, didn’t bring luck. On the opening night Chico caught a cold, took to his bed, and burned with fever. His fever raged on for two weeks, and when he finally rose from his sickbed, the prayers had been erased from his memory. In vain did the handler try to teach them to him all over again. A blue, bewildered sort of gaze now settled in Chico’s eyes, as if he didn’t understand what people were saying to him.
“Chico! Chico!” The handler would shake him. But Chico was never the same again.
Out of sheer desperation, the handler put Amalia and her partner back onstage, with the child who played the harmonica. They were excellent, surpassing themselves, but they were unable to compete with Chico. “Where’s Chico?” rumbled the audience. The handler had no choice but to put him onstage, so that everyone could see that he was still alive. But Chico, who only a month ago had climbed nimbly onto the stage and launched straight into a prayer, stood there frozen. His blue eyes were filled with a frighteningly vacant expression.
And thus was Chico’s star extinguished. Amalia and her partner and the other members of the troupe made tremendous efforts, but people were not prepared to pay a lot of money for their performances. At night the handler would blast Chico for his laziness and for not even trying to make an effort. Finally, he threatened to send him to Palestine, where it was tremendously hot and people worked from morning till night.
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