My name is Leib. When I am called up to read the portion of the Law it
is by the name of Yehudah-Leib. At home, I sign myself Lyef Moishevitch.
Amongst the Germans I am known as Herr Leon. Here in England, I am Mr.
Leon. When I was a child I was called Leibel. At "_Cheder_" I was
Lieb-Dreib-Obderick. You must know that at our "_Cheder_" every boy has
a nickname. For instance--"Mottel-Kappotel," "Meyer-Dreyer,"
"Mendel-Fendel," "Chayim-Clayim," "Itzig-Shpitzig," "Berel-Tzap." Did
you ever hear such rhymes? That Itzig rhymes with Shpitzig, and Mendel
with Fendel, and Chayim with Clayim is correct. But what has Berel to do
with Tzap, or how does Leib rhyme with Obderick? I did not like my
nickname. And I fought about it. I got blows and thumps and smacks and
whacks and pinches and kicks from all sides. I was black and blue.
Because I was the smallest in the "_Cheder_"--the smallest and the
weakest and the poorest, no one defended me. On the contrary, the two
rich boys tortured me. One got on top of me, and the other pulled me by
the ear. Whilst the third--a poor boy--sang a song to tease me--
"Just so! Just so!
Give it to him.
Punch him.
Bang him.
His little limbs,
His little limbs.
Just so! Just so!
At such times I lay quiet as a kitten. And when they let me go I went
into a corner and wept silently. I wiped my eyes, went back to my
comrades, and was all right again.
Just a word--whenever you meet the name Leibel in this story, you will
know it refers to me.
I am soft as down, short and fat. In reality, I am not so fat as I look.
On the contrary, I am rather bony, but I wear thick, wadded little
trousers, a thick, wadded vest, and a thick wadded coat. You see my
mother wants me to be warm. She is afraid I might catch cold, God
forbid! And she wraps me in cotton-wool from head to foot. She believes
that cotton-wool is very good to wrap a boy in, but must not be used for
making balls. I provided all the boys with cotton-wool I pulled it out
of my trousers and coat until she caught me. She beat me, and whacked
me, and thumped me and pinched me. But Leibel went on doing what he
liked--distributing cotton-wool.
My face is red, my cheeks rather blue, and my nose always running. "Such
a nose!" cries my mother. "If he had no nose, he would be all right. He
would have nothing to freeze in the cold weather." I often try to
picture to myself what would happen if I had no nose at all. If people
had no noses, what would they look like? Then the question is--? But I
was going to tell you the story of a dead citron, and I have wandered
off to goodness knows where. I will break off in the middle of what I
was saying, and go back to the story of the dead citron.
* * *
My father, Moshe-Yankel, has been a clerk at an insurance company's
office for many years. He gets five and a half "_roubles_" a week. He is
waiting for a rise in wages. He says that if he gets his rise this year,
please God, he will buy a citron. But my mother, Basse-Beila, has no
faith in this. She says the barracks will fall down before father will
get a rise.
One day, shortly before the New Year, Leibel overheard the following
conversation between his father and his mother.