Of course I was very much frightened. It seemed to me that he knew—that everybody knew. I was almost, almost crying out: "The pocket-knife? Here it is." But something came into my throat, and would not let me utter a sound for a minute or so. In a shaking voice I replied:
"Where? What pocket-knife?"
"Where? What knife?" my father mocked at me. "What knife? The golden knife. Our guest's knife, you good-for-nothing, you! You dunce, you! Tkeh-heh-heh!"
"What do you want of the child?" put in my mother. "The child knows nothing of anything, and he worries him about the knife, the knife."
"The knife—the knife! How can he not know about it?" cried my father angrily. "All the morning he hears me shouting—The knife! The knife! The knife! The house is turned upside down for the knife, and he asks 'Where? What knife?' Go away. Go and wash yourself, you good-for-nothing, you. You dunce, dunce! Tkeh-heh-heh!"
I thank Thee, Lord of the Universe, that they did not search me. But what was I to do next? The knife had to be hidden somewhere, in a safe place. Where was I to hide it? Ah! In the attic. I took the knife quickly from my pocket, and stuck it into my top-boot. I ate, and I did not know what I was eating. I was choking.
"Why are you in such a hurry? What the devil ...?" asked my father.
"I am hurrying off to school," I answered, and grew red as fire.
"A scholar, all of a sudden. What do you say to such a saint?" he muttered, and glared at me. I barely managed to finish my breakfast, and say grace.
"Well, why are you not off to 'Cheder,' my saint?" asked my father.