The whole dwelling, consisting of one nice, large, low room, is clean,
tidy, and bright. The bits of furniture and all the household essentials
are poor, but so clean and polished that one can mirror oneself in them,
if one cares to stoop down. The table is laid ready for Passover. The
bottles of red wine, the bottle of yellow Passover brandy, and the glass
goblets of different colors reflect the light of the thick tallow
candles, and shine and twinkle and sparkle. The oven, which stands in
the same room, is nearly out, there is one sleepy little bit of fire
still flickering. But the pots, ranged round the fire as though to watch
over it and encourage it, exhale such delicious, appetizing smells that
they would tempt even a person who had just eaten his fill. But no one
makes a move towards them. All five children lie stretched in a row on
the red-painted, wooden bed. Even they have not tasted of the precious
dishes, of which they have thought and talked for weeks previous to the
festival. They cried loud and long, waiting for their father's return,
and at last they went sweetly to sleep. Only one fly is moving about the
room: Rochtzi, Bertzi Wasserfuehrer's wife, and rivers of tears, large,
clear tears, salt with trouble and distress, flow from her eyes.