At our wine-shop we had a frequent visitor, Tchitchick, the bandmaster,
whom we used to call "Mr. Sergeant." He was a tall, powerful man with a
big round beard and terrifying eyebrows. And he talked a curiously
mixed-up jargon composed of several languages. When he talked, he moved
his eyebrows up and down. When he lowered his eyebrows, his face was
black as night. When he raised them up, his face was bright as day. And
this was because, under these same thick eyebrows he had a pair of
kindly, smiling light blue eyes. He wore a uniform with gilt buttons,
and that is why he was called at our place "Mr. Sergeant." He was a very
frequent visitor at our wine-shop. Not because he was a drunkard. God
forbid! But for the simple reason that my father was very clever at
making from raisins "the best and finest Hungarian wine." Tchitchick
used to love this wine. He never ceased from praising it. He used to put
his big, terrifying hand on my father's shoulder, and say to him:
"Mr. Cellarer, you have the best Hungarian wine. There isn't such wine
in Buda Pesth, by God!"
With me Tchitchick was always on the most intimate terms. He praised me
for learning such a lot at school. He often examined me to see if I knew
who Adam was. And who was Isaac? And who was Joseph?
"Yousef?" I asked him, in Yiddish. "Do you mean Yousef the Saint?"
"Joseph," he repeated.
"Yousef," I corrected him, once again.
"With us it's Joseph. With you it's Youdsef," he said to me, and pinched
my cheek. "Joseph, Youdsef, Youdsef, Dsodsepf--what does it matter? It
is all the same."
"Ha! ha! ha!"