Jewish fiction; Jews -- Fiction; Short stories, Yiddish -- Translations into English
Feivke looked on in amaze. He wanted to go and take his father by the
sleeve, make him get up and escape, but just then Mattes raised himself
to a sitting posture, and began to rub his eyes with the same shy smile.
"Now, Rebbe, this one!" and the yellow-haired boy began to drag Feivke
towards the hay. The others assisted. Feivke got very red, and silently
tried to tear himself out of the boy's hands, making for the door, but
the other kept his hold. In the doorway Feivke glared at him with his
obstinate black eyes, and said:
"I'll knock your teeth out!"
"Mine? You? You booby, you lazy thing! This is _our_ house! Do you know,
on New Year's Eve I went with my grandfather to the town! I shall call
Leibrutz. He'll give you something to remember him by!"
And Leibrutz was not long in joining them. He was the inn driver, a
stout youth of fifteen, in a peasant smock with a collar stitched in
red, otherwise in full array, with linen socks and a handsome bottle of
strong waters against faintness in his hands. To judge by the size of
the bottle, his sturdy looks belied a peculiarly delicate constitution.
He pushed towards Feivke with one shoulder, in no friendly fashion, and
looked at him with one eye, while he winked with the other at the
freckled grandson of the host.
"Who is the beauty?"
"How should I know? A thief most likely. The Kozlov smith's boy. He
threatened to knock out my teeth."
"So, so, dear brother mine!" sang out Leibrutz, with a cold sneer, and
passed his five fingers across Feivke's nose. "We must rub a little
horseradish under his eyes, and he'll weep like a beaver. Listen, you
Kozlov urchin, you just keep your hands in your pockets, because
Leibrutz is here! Do you know Leibrutz? Lucky for you that I have a
Jewish heart: to-day is Yom Kippur."
But the chicken-faced boy was not pacified.
"Did you ever see such a lip? And then he comes to our house and wants
to fight us!"
The whole lot of boys now encircled Feivke with teasing and laughter,
and he stood barefooted in their midst, looking at none of them, and
reminding one of a little wild animal caught and tormented.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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