On a low stool in the middle of the only room in our mud hut sat my father--his red beard falling over the Book of Isaiah open before him. On the tile stove, on the benches that were our beds, even on the earthen floor, sat the neighbors’ children, learning from him the ancient poetry of the Hebrew race. As he chanted, the children repeated: “The voice of him that crieth in the wilderness, Prepare ye the way of the Lord. Make straight in the desert a highway for our God. “Every valley shall be exalted, And every mountain and hill shall be made low, And the crooked shall be made straight, And the rough places plain. “And the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, And all flesh shall see it together.” Undisturbed by the swaying and chanting of teacher and pupils, old Kakah, our speckled hen, with her brood of chicks, strutted and pecked at the potato-peelings which fell from my mother’s lap, as she prepared our noon meal. I stood at the window watching the road, lest the Cossack come upon us unawares to enforce the ukaz of the Czar, which would tear the bread from our mouths: “No Chadir [Hebrew school] shall be held in a room used for cooking and sleeping.” With one eye I watched ravenously my mother cutting chunks of black bread. At last the potatoes were ready. She poured them out of the iron pot into a wooden bowl and placed them in the center of the table. Instantly the swaying and chanting ceased, the children rushed forward. The fear of the Cossacks was swept away from my heart by the fear that the children would get my potato. The sentry deserted his post. With a shout of joy I seized my portion and bit a huge mouthful of mealy delight. At that moment the door was driven open by the blow of an iron heel. The Cossack’s whip swished through the air. Screaming, we scattered. The children ran out--our livelihood gone with them. “Oi weh,” wailed my mother, clutching her breast, “is there a God over us--and sees all this?” With grief-glazed eyes my father muttered a broken prayer as the Cossack thundered the ukaz: “A thousand rubles fine or a year in prison if you are ever found again teaching children where you’re eating and sleeping.” “Gottuniu!” pleaded my mother, “would you tear the last skin from our bones? Where else can we be eating and sleeping? Or should we keep chadir in the middle of the road? Have we houses with separate rooms like the Czar?” Ignoring my mother’s entreaties the Cossack strode out of the hut. My father sank into a chair, his head bowed in the silent grief of the helpless. “God from the world”--my mother wrung her hands--“is there no end to our troubles? When will the earth cover me and my woes?” I watched the Cossack disappear down the road. All at once I saw the whole village running toward us. I dragged my mother to the window to see the approaching crowd. “Gewalt! What more is falling over our heads?” she cried in alarm.