wildly.

I don't recognize myself; I remember me in a grey jacket, narrow,
close-fitting trousers, a round hat, and a healthy complexion.

I can't make out where I got those big eyes, why they shine so, why my
face should be yellow, and my nose, pointed.

And yet I know that it is I myself, Chayyim Blumin, and no other; that I
have been handed over for a soldier, and have to serve only two years
and eight months, and not three years and eight months, because I have a
certificate to the effect that I have been through the first four
classes in a secondary school.

Though I know quite well that I am to serve only two years and eight
months, I feel the same as though it were to be forever; I can't,
somehow, believe that my time will some day expire, and I shall once
more be free.

I have tried from the very beginning not to play any tricks, to do my
duty and obey orders, so that they should not say, "A Jew won't work--a
Jew is too lazy."

Even though I am let off manual labor, because I am on "privileged
rights," still, if they tell me to go and clean the windows, or polish
the flooring with sand, or clear away the snow from the door, I make no
fuss and go. I wash and clean and polish, and try to do the work well,
so that they should find no fault with me.

They haven't yet ordered me to carry pails of water.

Why should I not confess it? The idea of having to do that rather
frightens me. When I look at the vessel in which the water is carried,
my heart begins to flutter: the vessel is almost as big as I am, and I
couldn't lift it even if it were empty.

I often think: What shall I do, if to-morrow, or the day after, they
wake me at three o'clock in the morning and say coolly:

"Get up, Blumin, and go with Ossadtchok to fetch a pail of water!"

You ought to see my neighbor Ossadtchok! He looks as if he could squash
me with one finger. It is as easy for him to carry a pail of water as to
drink a glass of brandy. How can I compare myself with him?

I don't care if it makes my shoulder swell, if I could only carry the
thing. I shouldn't mind about that. But God in Heaven knows the truth,
that I won't be able to lift the pail off the ground, only they won't
believe me, they will say:

"Look at the lazy Jew, pretending he is a poor creature that can't lift
a pail!"

There--I mind that more than anything.

I don't suppose they _will_ send me to fetch water, for, after all, I am
on "privileged rights," but I ca