Jewish fiction; Jews -- Fiction; Short stories, Yiddish -- Translations into English
Everything in the house was broken, they had twisted his father's arm
and bruised his face. His mother lay on the bed, her fair hair tossed
about, and her eyes half-closed, her face pale and stained, and
something about her whole appearance so rumpled and sluttish--it
reminded one of a tumbled bedquilt. His father walked up and down the
room in silence, looking at no one, his bound arm in a white sling, and
when Meyerl, conscious of some invisible calamity, burst out crying, his
father only gave him a gloomy, irritated look, and continued to span the
room as before.
In about three weeks' time they sailed for America. The sea was very
rough during the passage, and his mother lay the whole time in her
berth, and was very sick. Meyerl was quite fit, and his father did
nothing but pace the deck, even when it poured with rain, till they came
and ordered him down-stairs.
Meyerl never knew exactly what happened, but once a Gentile on board the
ship passed a remark on his father, made fun of him, or something--and
his father drew himself up, and gave the other a look--nothing more than
a look! And the Gentile got such a fright that he began crossing
himself, and he spit out, and his lips moved rapidly. To tell the truth,
Meyerl was frightened himself by the contraction of his father's mouth,
the grind of his teeth, and by his eyes, which nearly started from his
head. Meyerl had never seen him look like that before, but soon his
father was once more pacing the deck, his head down, his wet collar
turned up, his hands in his sleeves, and his back slightly bent.
When they arrived in New York City, Meyerl began to feel giddy, and it
was not long before the whole of Tartilov appeared to him like a dream.
It was in the beginning of winter, and soon the snow fell, the fresh
white snow, and it was something like! Meyerl was now a "boy," he went
to "school," made snowballs, slid on the slides, built little fires in
the middle of the street, and nobody interfered. He went home to eat
and sleep, and spent what you may call his "life" in the street.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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