eder_"
(the "_Rebbe_" is lying ill), it is for nothing--for nothing. No one
knows whom the shoe pinches--no one. No one knows who the real murderers
are. We rarely see one another. When we meet, the first words are: "How
is the teacher?" (He is no more Mazeppa.) And when we pray, we ask God
to save the teacher. We weep in silence: "Oh, Father of the Universe!
Father of the Universe!" And Elya? Don't ask about him. May the devil
take him--that same Elya!

* * *

EPILOGUE

When the "_Rebbe_" recovered (he was ill six weeks, in the height of
fever, and babbled constantly of murderers) and we went back to
"_Cheder_," we hardly recognized him, so greatly had he changed. What
had become of his lion's roar? He had put away his strap, and there was
no more "Lie down," and no more Mazeppa. On his face there was to be
seen a gentle melancholy. A feeling of regret stole into our hearts. And
Mazeppa suddenly grew dear to us, dear to our souls. Oh, if he had only
scolded us! But it was as if nothing had happened. Suddenly, he stopped
us in the middle of the lesson, and asked us to tell him again the story
of that "_L'ag Beomer_" day, and of the murderers in the forest. We did
not hesitate, but told him again and again the story we knew off by
heart--how murderers had come upon us in the forest, how they fell upon
him, tied him to the tree, and were going to kill him with a knife, and
how we rushed excitedly into the town, and by our shouting and clamours
saved him.

The "_Rebbe_" listened to us with closed eyes. Then he sighed, and asked
us suddenly:

"Are you quite sure they were murderers?"

"What else were they?"

"Perhaps bandits?"

And the teacher's eyes sought the distance. And we imagined that a
curiously cunning smile was hovering around his thick lips.

Three Little Heads

If my pen were an artist's brush, or at the very least a photographic
camera, I would create for you, my friend, a picture, for a present in
honour of "_Shevuous_," of a rare group of three pretty little heads, of
three poor naked, barefoot Jewish children. All three little heads are
black, and have curly hair. The eyes are big and shiny and burning. They
gaze out in wonder, and seem to be always asking of the world the one
question: Wherefore? You look at them, and marvel at them, and feel
guilty towards them, just as if you were really responsible for
them--for the existence of three little superfluous mortals in the
world.

T