Peralle was a sickly child. That is to say, in the ordinary way she was all right, but she could not walk, neither walk nor stand, only sit. They used to carry her into the open and put her sitting in the sand, right in the sun. She loved the sun, loved it terribly. I used to carry her about. She used to clasp me around the neck with her small, thin, sweet little fingers, and nestle her whole body close to me —closer and closer. She would put her head on my shoulder. "I love Uncle Bebebe."
Our neighbour Krenni says she cannot forget Uncle Bebebe to this day. When she sees me, she says she is again reminded of her Peralle.
My mother is angry with her for weeping.
"We must not weep," says my mother. "We must not sin. We must forget—forget."
That is what my mother says. She interrupts Krenni in the middle and drives me off.
"If you don't get into our eyes, we won't remember that which we must not."
Ha! ha! How is it possible to forget? When I think of that little girl the tears come into my eyes of their own accord—of their own accord.
"See, he weeps again, the wise one," cries "Fruma with the little eye" to my mother. My mother gives me a quick glance and laughs aloud.
"The horse-radish has gone into your eyes. The devil take you. It's a hard piece of horse-radish. I forgot to tell him to close his eyes. Woe is me! Here is my apron. Wipe your eyes, foolish boy. And your nose, too, wipe at the same time your nose, your nose."