The few words his mother had said to his father about his biting off the top of the citron burned themselves into Leibel's heart, and ate into his bones like a deadly poison.
The top of the citron buried itself in Leibel's brain. It did not leave his thoughts for a moment. It entered his dreams at night, worried him, and almost dragged him by the hand. "You do not recognize me, foolish boy? It is I—the top of the citron." Leibel turned round on the other side, groaned, and went to sleep. It worried him again. "Get up, fool. Go and open the cupboard, take out the citron, and bite me off. You will enjoy yourself."
Leibel got up in the morning, washed his hands, and began to say his prayers. He took his breakfast, and was going off to "Cheder." Passing by, he glanced in the direction of the glass cupboard. Through the glass door, he saw the box containing the citron. And he imagined the box was winking at him. "Over here, over here, little boy." Leibel marched straight out of the house.
One morning, when Leibel got up, he found himself alone in the house. His father had gone off to business, his mother had gone to the market. The servant was busy in the kitchen. "Every one is gone. There isn't a soul in the house," thought Leibel. Passing by, he again looked inside the glass cupboard. He saw the sugar box that held the citron. It seemed to be beckoning to him. "Over here, over here, little boy." Leibel opened the glass door softly and carefully, and took out the box—the beautiful, round, carved, decorated wooden box, and raised the lid. Before he had time to lift out the citron, the fragrance of it filled his nostrils—the pungent, heavenly odour. Before he had time to turn around, the citron was in his hand, and the top of it in his eyes.
"Do you want to enjoy yourself? Do you want to know the taste of Paradise? Take and bite me off. Do not be afraid, little fool. No one will know of it. Not a son of Adam will see you. No bird will tell on you."
. . . . .
You want to know what happened? You want to know whether I bit the top off the citron, or held myself back from doing it? I should like to know what you would have done in my place—if you had been told ten times not to dare to bite the top off the citron? Would you not have wanted to know what it tasted like? Would you not also have thought of the plan—to bite it off, and stick it on again with spittle? You may believe me or not—that is your affair—but I do not know myself how it happened. Before the citron was rightly in my hands, the top of it was between my teeth.
. . . . .
The day before the Festival, father came home a little earlier from his work, to untie the palm-branch. He had put it away very carefully in a corner, warning Leibel not to attempt to go near it. But it was useless warning him. Leibel had his own troubles. The top of the citron haunted him. Why had he wanted to bite it off? What good had it done him to taste it when it was bitter as gall? It was for nothing he had spoiled the citron, and rendered it unfit for use. That the citron could not now be used, Leibel knew very well. Then what had he done this for? Why had he spoiled this beautiful creation, bitten off its head, and taken its life? Why? Why? He dreamt of the citron that night. It haunted him, and asked him: "Why have you done this thing to me? Why did you bite off my head? I am now useless—useless." Leibel turned over on the other side, groaned, and fell asleep again. But he was again questioned by the citron. "Murderer, what have you against me? What had my head done to you?"
. . . . .