Instantly the swaying and chanting ceased, the children rushed forward. The fear of the Cossacks was swept away from my heart by the fear that the children would get my potato.
The sentry deserted his post. With a shout of joy I seized my portion and bit a huge mouthful of mealy delight.
At that moment the door was driven open by the blow of an iron heel. The Cossack’s whip swished through the air. Screaming, we scattered.
The children ran out—our livelihood gone with them.
“Oi weh,” wailed my mother, clutching her breast, “is there a God over us—and sees all this?”
With grief-glazed eyes my father muttered a broken prayer as the Cossack thundered the ukaz: “A thousand rubles fine or a year in prison if you are ever found again teaching children where you’re eating and sleeping.”
“Gottuniu!” pleaded my mother, “would you tear the last skin from our bones? Where else can we be eating and sleeping? Or should we keep chadir in the middle of the road? Have we houses with separate rooms like the Czar?”
Ignoring my mother’s entreaties the Cossack strode out of the hut. My father sank into a chair, his head bowed in the silent grief of the helpless.
“God from the world”—my mother wrung her hands—“is there no end to our troubles? When will the earth cover me and my woes?”
I watched the Cossack disappear down the road. All at once I saw the whole village running toward us. I dragged my mother to the window to see the approaching crowd.