A few packets of matches, a few boxes of cigarettes; needles, pins, hair-pins, buttons, green and yellow soap, a few pieces of home-made, fragrant soap, a few grocery wares.
"Who lives here?" I ask.
"You can see for yourself!" answers a Jewish woman, and goes on combing the hair of a little girl about ten years old, who has twitched her head from under the comb and stares with great, astonished eyes, at the Goï[91] who talks Yiddish.
"Lay your head down again!" screams the mother.
"What is the name of your husband?" I inquire.
"Mösheh."
"And his 'German' name?"
"May his name come home!" she scolds suddenly. "He has been four hours getting a dish from the neighbor's!"
"Stop scolding," says the beadle, "and answer when you're spoken to!"
She is afraid of the beadle. He is beadle and bailiff together, and collects the taxes, besides being held in great regard by the town-justice.