"Ragged fool!" cried my mother.
I forgave her for the "ragged fool," but why did she also beat me?
. . . . .
Why was I beaten? Does not our teacher himself tell us that all creatures are dear to the Lord? Even a fly on the wall must not be hurt, he says, out of pity for the living. Even a spider, that is an evil spirit, must not be killed either, he tells us emphatically.
"If the spider deserved to die, then the Lord Himself would slay him."
Then comes the question: Very well, if that is so, then why do the people slaughter cows and calves and sheep and fowls every day of the week?
And not only cows and other animals and fowls, but do not men slaughter one another? At the time when we had the "Pogrom," did not men throw down little children from the tops of houses? Did they not kill our neighbours' little girl? Her name was Peralle. And how did they kill her?
Ah, how I loved that little girl. And how that little girl loved me! "Uncle Bebebe," she used to call me. (My name is Velvalle.) And she used to pull me by the nose with her small, thin, sweet little fingers. Because of her, because of Peralle, every one calls me "Uncle Bebebe."
"Here comes Uncle Bebebe, and he will take you in hand."
. . . . .