I must confess that there was a sort of secret love between Okhrim and myself—a sort of sympathy that could not be expressed in words. We rarely spoke to one another. Firstly, because I did not understand his language, that is to say, I understood his but he did not understand mine. Secondly, I was shy. How could I talk to such a big Okhrim? I had to ask my mother to be our interpreter.
"Mother, ask him why he does not bring me some grapes."
"Where is he going to get them? There are no grapes growing in a vegetable garden."
"Why are there no grapes in a vegetable garden?"
"Because vine trees do not grow with vegetables."
"Why do vine trees not grow with vegetables?"
"Why—why—why? You are a fool," cried my mother, and gave me a smack in the face.
"Mrs. Abraham, do not beat the child," said Okhrim, defending me.
That is the sort of Gentile Okhrim was. And it was in his hands I found myself that day when I waged war against the vegetables.
This is what I believe took place: When Okhrim came up and saw his garden in ruins, he could not at once understand what had happened. When he saw me swinging my sword about me on all sides, he ought to have realized I was a terrible being, an evil spirit, a demon, and crossed himself several times. But when he saw that it was a Jewish boy who was fighting so vigorously, and with a wooden sword, he took hold of me by the ear with so much force that I collapsed, fell to the ground, and screamed in a voice unlike my own: