"They look as if they'd enough of me!"
So I think to myself, as I give a glance at my two great top-boots, my
wide trousers, and my shabby green uniform, in which there is no whole
part left.
I take a bit of looking-glass out of my box, and look at my reflection.
Yes, the military cap on my head is a beauty, and no mistake, as big as
Og king of Bashan, and as bent and crushed as though it had been sat
upon for years together.
Under the cap appears a small, washed-out face, yellow and weazened,
with two large black eyes that look at me somewhat wildly.
I don't recognize myself; I remember me in a grey jacket, narrow,
close-fitting trousers, a round hat, and a healthy complexion.
I can't make out where I got those big eyes, why they shine so, why my
face should be yellow, and my nose, pointed.
And yet I know that it is I myself, Chayyim Blumin, and no other; that I
have been handed over for a soldier, and have to serve only two years
and eight months, and not three years and eight months, because I have a
certificate to the effect that I have been through the first four
classes in a secondary school.
Though I know quite well that I am to serve only two years and eight
months, I feel the same as though it were to be forever; I can't,
somehow, believe that my time will some day expire, and I shall once
more be free.
I have tried from the very beginning not to play any tricks, to do my
duty and obey orders, so that they should not say, "A Jew won't work--a
Jew is too lazy."
Even though I am let off manual labor, because I am on "privileged
rights," still, if they tell me to go and clean the windows, or polish
the flooring with sand, or clear away the snow from the door, I make no
fuss and go. I wash and clean and polish, and try to do the work well,
so that they should find no fault with me.
They haven't yet ordered me to carry pails of water.
Why should I not confess it? The idea of having to do that rather
frightens me. When I look at the vessel in which the water is carried,
my heart begins to flutter: the vessel is almost as big as I am, and I
couldn't lift it even if it were empty.
I often think: What shall I do, if to-morrow, or the day after, they
wake me at three o'clock in the morning and say coolly:
"Get up, Blumin, and go with Ossadtchok to fetch a pail of water!"
You ought to see my neighbor Ossadtchok! He looks as if he could squash
me with one finger. It is as easy for him to carry a pail of water as to
drink a glass of brandy. How can I compare myself with him?
I don't care if it makes my shoulder swell, if I could only carry the
thing. I shouldn't mind about that. But God in Heaven knows the truth,
that I won't be able to lift the pail off the ground, only they won't
believe me, they will say:
"Look at the lazy Jew, pretending he is a poor creature that can't lift
a pail!"
There--I mind that more than anything.
I don't suppose they _will_ send me to fetch water, for, after all, I am
on "privileged rights," but I can't sleep in peace: I dream all night
that they are waking me at three o'clock, and I start up bathed in a
cold sweat.
Drill does not begin before eight in the morning, but they wake us at
six, so that we may have time to clean our rifles, polish our boots and
leather girdle, brush our coat, and furbish the brass buttons with
chalk, so that they should shine like mirrors.
I don't mind the getting up early, I am used to rising long before
daylight, but I am always worrying lest something shouldn't be properly
cleaned, and they should say that a Jew is so lazy, he doesn't care if
his things are clean or not, that he's afraid of touching his rifle, and
pay me other compliments of the kind.
I clean and polish and rub everything all I know, but my rifle always
seems in worse condition than the other men's. I can't make it look the
same as theirs, do what I will, and the head of my division, a corporal,
shouts at me, calls me a greasy fellow, and says he'll have me up before
the authorities because I don't take care of my arms.
But there is worse than the rifle, and that is the uniform. Mine is
_years_ old--I am sure it is older than I am. Every day little pieces
fall out of it, and the buttons tear themselves out of the cloth,
dragging bits of it after them.
I never had a needle in my hand in all my life before, and now I sit
whole nights and patch and sew on buttons. And next morning, when the
corporal takes hold of a button and gives a pull, to see if it's firmly
sewn, a pang goes through my heart: the button is dragged out, and a
piece of the uniform follows.
Another whole night's work for me!
After the inspection, they drive us out into the yard and teach us to
stand: it must be done so that our stomachs fall in and our chests stick
out. I am half as one ought to be, because my stomach is flat enough
anyhow, only my chest is weak and narrow and also flat--flat as a board.
The corporal squeezes in my stomach with his knee, pulls me forward by
the flaps of the coat, but it's no use. He loses his temper, and calls
me greasy fellow, screams again that I am pretending, that I _won't_
serve, and this makes my chest fall in more than ever.