"If it is so hard to be insulted once by a youngster who cannot count his own years yet, how much harder is it to hear insults day in and day out, year in and year out?"
Marusya looked at me with sparkling eyes. She thought I was angry with her and meant her. Then she wanted to soothe my feelings, and she said wonderingly:
"Years? What, pray, did I do to you? I only wanted you not to listen to Jacob. He is a bad man. He hates me. He is forever on the lookout to separate us!"
"He is afraid," said I, "I might yet get converted."
At this Marusya gave me an irresistible look, the look of a mother, of a loving sister.
"No," she said decidedly, "I shall not let you do that. You and your daughters will be unhappy forever. You know what I have decided? I have decided never to get married. For I know that my own daughters will always be called Zhidovka." At this point I became sorry for the turn our conversation had taken, and I cared no more for the defense of the Jews. After a brief silence Marusya turned to me:
"Why does mother dislike Jews so much? She surely knows them better than papa does."
"Very likely she fears being called Zhidovka, as they called you."
"But, then, why did she get herself into that trouble?"
"Ask yourself; she may tell you." . . . .