BERTZI WASSERFUHRER 213
hale such delicious, appetizing smells that they would tempt even a person who had just eaten his fill. But no one makes a move towards them. All five children lie stretched in a row on the red-painted, wooden bed. Even they have not tasted of the precious dishes, of which they have thought and talked for weeks previous to the festival. They cried loud and long, waiting for their father's return, and at last they went sweetly to sleep. Only one fly is moving about the room : Rochtzi, Bertzi Wasserfiihrer's wife, and rivers of tears, large, clear tears, salt with trouble and distress, flow from her eyes.
Ill
Although Rochtzi has not seen more than thirty summers, she looks like an old woman. Once upon a time she was pretty, she was even known as one of the prettiest of the Kamenivke girls, and traces of her beauty are still to be found in her uncommonly large, dark eyes, and even in her lined face, although the eyes have long lost their fire, and her cheeks, their color and freshness. She is dressed in clean holiday attire, but her eyes are red from the hot, salt tears, and her ex- pression is darkened and sad.
"Such a festival, such a great, holy festival, and then when it comes. . . " The pale lips tremble and quiver.
How many days and nights, beginning before Purim, has she sat with her needle between her fingers, so that the children should have their holiday frocks and all depending on her hands and head ! How much thought and care and strength has she spent on preparing the room, their poor little possessions, and the food ? How
