"Why are you in such a hurry for 'Cheder'?" cried my father to me. "What is driving you? You will not lose your knowledge if you go a little later. You will have time enough for mischief. You scamp! You epicurean! You heathen! Tkeh-heh-heh-heh!"
. . . . .
"Why so late? Just look at this." The teacher stopped me, and pointed with his finger at my comrade, Berrel the red one, who was standing in the corner with his head down.
"Do you see, bandit? You must know that from this day his name is not Berrel the red one, as he was called. He is now called a fine name. His name is now Berrel the thief. Shout it out, children. Berrel the thief! Berrel the thief!"
The teacher drew out the words, and put a little tune into them. The pupils repeated them after him, like a chorus.
"Berrel the thief—Berrel the thief!"
I was petrified. A cold wave passed over my body. I did not know what it all meant.
"Why are you silent, you heathen, you?" cried the teacher, and gave me an unexpected smack in the face. "Why are you silent, you heathen? Don't you hear the others singing? Join in with them, and help them. Berrel the thief—Berrel the thief!"
My limbs trembled. My teeth rattled. But, I helped the others to shout aloud "Berrel the thief! Berrel the thief!"
"Louder, heathen," prompted the teacher. "In a stronger voice—stronger."