Tchitchick lived far out of town. In a little white house that had tidy
windows and painted shutters. Leading up to it, there was a big green
garden from out of which peeked proudly a number of tall, yellow
sunflowers. As if they were something important. They bent their heads a
little to one side and shook themselves to and fro. It seemed to me that
they were calling out to me, "Come over here to us, boy." "There is
grass here. There is freedom here. There is light here. It is fresh
here. It is warm here. It is pleasant here." And after the stench and
heat and dust of the town, and after the overcrowding and the noise and
the tumult of the school, one was indeed glad to get here because there
is grass here. It is fresh here. It is bright here. It is warm here. It
is pleasant here. One longs to run, leap shout and sing. Or else one
wants suddenly to throw oneself on the bear earth. To bury one's face in
the green sweet smelling grass.
But alas, this is not for you Jewish children. Yellow sunflowers, green
leaves, fresh air, pure earth or a clear day. Do not be offended Jewish
children. But all these have not grown up out of your rubbish.
I was met by a big, shaggy-haired dog with red, fiery eyes. He fell upon
me with so much fierceness that the soul almost dropped out of my body.
It was fortunate that he was tied up with a rope.
On hearing my screams, Tchitchick flew out without his jacket and began
ordering the dog to be silent. And he was silent.
Afterwards, Tchitchick took hold of my hand, led me straight to the
black dog and told me not to be afraid. He would not harm me.
"Just try and pat him on the back," said Tchitchick to me. And without
waiting, took hold of my hand and drew it all over the dog's skin. At
the same time calling him many curious names and speaking kind words to
him.
The black villain lowered his head, wagged his tail and licked himself
with his tongue. He threw at me a glance of contempt. As if he would
say, "It's lucky for you that my master is standing beside you.
Otherwise you would have gone from here without a hand."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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