"If you were a good boy, you would help us to scrape the horse-radish
until we are ready with the fish for the holy festival."
That was what my mother said to me on the eve of "_Shevuous_," about
mid-day. She was helping the cook to prepare the fish for the supper.
The fishes were still alive and wriggling. When they were put into a
clay basin and covered with water they were still struggling.
More than any of the others there struggled a little carp with a broad
back, and a round head and red eyes. It seemed that the little carp had
a strong desire to get back into the river. It struggled hard. It leaped
out of the basin, flapped its tail, and splashed the water right into my
face. "Little boy, save me! Little boy, save me!"
I wiped my face, and betook myself to the task of scraping the
horse-radish for the supper. I thought within myself, "Poor little fish.
I can do nothing for you. They will soon take you in hand. You will be
scaled and ripped open, cut into pieces, put in a pot, salted and
peppered, placed on the fire, and boiled and simmered, and simmered, and
simmered."
"It's a pity," I said to my mother. "It's a pity for the living."
"Of whom is it a pity?"
"It's a pity of the little fishes."
"Who told you that?"
"The teacher."
"The teacher?"
She exchanged glances with the cook who was helping her, and they both
laughed aloud.
"You are a fool, and your teacher a still greater fool. Ha! ha! Scrape
the horse-radish, scrape away."
That I was a fool I knew. My mother told me that frequently, and my
brothers and my sisters too. But that my teacher was a greater fool than
I--that was news to me.
* * *
I have a comrade, Pinalle, the "_Shochet's_" son. I was at his house one
day, and I saw how a little girl carried a fowl, a huge cock, its legs
tied with a string. My comrade's father, the "_Shochet_," was asleep,
and the little girl sat at the door and waited. The cock, a fine strong
bird, tried to get out of the girl's arms. He drove his strong feet into
her, pecked at her hand, let out from his throat a loud
"Cock-a-doodle-doo!" protested as much as he could. But the girl was no
weakling either. She thrust the head of the rooster under her arm and
dug her elbows into him, saying:
"Be still, you wretch!"
And he obeyed and remained silent.
When the "_Shochet_" woke up, he washed his hands and took out his
knife. He motioned to have the bird handed to him. I imagined that the
cock changed colour. He must have thought that he was going to be freed
to race back to his hens, to the corn and the water. But it was not so.
The "_Shochet_" turned him round, caught him between his knees, thrust
back his head with one hand, with the other plucked out a few little
feathers, pronounced a blessing--heck! the knife was drawn across his
throat. He was cast away. I thought he would fall to pieces.
"Pinalle, your father is a heathen," I said to my comrade.
"Why is he a heathen?"
"He has in him no pity for the living."
"I did not know you were so clever," said my comrade, and he pulled a
long nose right into my face.
* * *
Our cook is blind of one eye. She is called "Fruma with the little eye."
She is a girl without a heart. She once beat the cat with nettles for
having run away with a little liver from the board. Afterwards, when she
counted the fowls and the livers, it turned out that she had made a
mistake. She had thought there were seven fowls, and, of course, seven
little livers, and there were only six. And if there were only six fowls
there could be only six little livers. Marvellous! She had accused the
cat wrongly.
You might imagine that Fruma was sorry and apologized to the cat. But it
appeared she forgot all about it. And the cat, too, forgot all about
it. A few hours later she was lying on the stove, licking herself as if
nothing had happened. It's not for nothing that people say: "A cat's
brains!"
But I did not forget. No, I did not forget. I said to the cook: "You
beat the cat for nothing. You had a sin for no reason. It was a pity for
the living. The Lord will punish you."
"Will you go away, or else I'll give it you across the face with the
towel."
That is what "Fruma with the little eye" said to me. And she added:
"Lord Almighty! Wherever in the world do such children come from?"
* * *
It was all about a dog that had been scalded with boiling water by the
same "Fruma with the little eye." Ah, how much pain it caused the dog.
It squealed, howled and barked with all its might, filling the world
with noise. The whole town came together at the sound of his howling,
and laughed, and laughed. All the dogs in the town barked out of
sympathy, each from his own kennel, and each after his own fashion. One
might think that they had been asked to bark. Afterwards, when the
scalded dog had finished howling, he moaned and muttered and licked his
sores, and growled softly. My heart melted within me. I went over to him
and was going to fondle him.
"Here, Sirko!"
The dog, seeing my raised hand, jumped up as if he had been scalded
again, took his tail between his legs and ran away--away.
"Shah! Sirko!" I said trying to soothe him with soft words. "Why do you
run away like that, fool? Am I doing you any harm?"
A dog is a dog. His tongue is dumb. He knows nothing of pity for the
living.
My father saw me running after the dog and he pounced down on me.
"Go into '_Cheder_,' dog-beater."
Then I was the dog-beater.
* * *
It was all about two little birds--two tiny little birds that two boys,
one big and one small, had killed. When the two little birds dropped
from the tree they were still alive. Their feathers were ruffled. They
fluttered their wings, and trembled in every limb.
"Get up, you hedgehog," said the big boy to the small boy. And they took
the little birds in their hands and beat their heads against the
tree-trunk, until they died.