. . . . .
We arrived home exhausted, ragged, bruised, beaten. And we giants imagined that our parents would pity us, give us cakes because of the blows we got. But it turned out we were mistaken. No one thought of us. We thanked God we were so fortunate as to escape without beatings from our parents for our torn clothes and twisted boots. But next morning we got a good whipping from our teacher, Nissel the small one, for the bruises we had on our foreheads and the blue marks around our eyes. It is shameful to tell it—we were each whipped in the true style. This was a mere addition, as if we had not had enough.
We were not sorry for anything but that the assistants gave us another share. When a father or a mother beats one, it is out of kindness. When a teacher beats one it is because he is a teacher. And what is his rod for, anyway? But the assistants! Our curses upon them! As if it were not enough that they had eaten all our food, and drunk our cherry-wine—may they suffer for it, Father of the Universe!—as if it were not enough that they had left us to fight alone, in the middle of the field, but when they were whipping us they held our feet, so that we might not kick either.
. . . . .
And that was how our holiday ended up. It was a dark, dreary, lost "L'ag Beomer."
Murderers
"Is he still snoring?"
"And how snoring!"
"May he perish!"
"Wake him up. Wake him up."