by Blume Lempel, translation by Ellen Cassedy and Yermiyahu Ahron Taub In geveb: A Journal of Yiddish Studies (September 2016)
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1 The Debt דער חובֿ by Blume Lempel, translation by Ellen Cassedy and Yermiyahu Ahron Taub In geveb: A Journal of Yiddish Studies (September 2016) For the online version of this article: [ and translations/the debt]
2 דער חובֿ The Debt Blume Lempel translated by Ellen Cassedy and Yermiyahu Ahron Taub Introduction: Blume Lempel ( ), one of the handful of writers who published in Yiddish into the 1990 s, was born in Khorostkiv, Galicia (now Ukraine). She immigrated to Paris in 1929 and fled to New York on the eve of World War II. Her stories, which broke new ground both in their edgy subject matter and narrative technique, appeared regularly in Yiddish periodicals on both sides of the Atlantic. We are delighted to present this exclusive extract from the new book Oedipus in Brooklyn and Other Stories, forthcoming in November and co published by Mandel Vilar Press and Dryad Press. It is the first full length collection of Lempel s work to appear in English translation. The Debt takes us to an abortion clinic in Paris before World War II. The narrator, a Jewish immigrant from Poland, has become pregnant following a sex for money transaction with a wealthy man. Dreamily, she reflects on the sequence of events that brought her to the clinic, and on her girlhood in rural Poland. As in many of Lempel s works, sensuous beauty is artfully mixed with menace. 1
3 The Debt She lay face up on the operating table. Her upper body was firmly secured with plastic straps. Her knees were up, her bare legs spread. She was not thinking of the danger ahead. She d left all her doubts and self pity in the sixth floor garret where they d first taken root inside her, had abandoned them there like a stack of unsigned poems odes, perhaps, to the patch of sky that pressed against her tiny skylight. Here on the table she felt calm, suffused with the perverse serenity that comes sometimes when all seems lost. Behind her eyelids, she held onto the summer morning that had settled on the edge of her consciousness, blocking out the reality of what was to come. It was an ordinary morning. The soft golden fingers of the sun had touched the first story of Sacre Coeur Basilica and were groping through the lush leaves of the chestnut trees toward the statue of the boy, from whose stone member a falling stream was trickling. The operating room had no windows. The light from neon bulbs hit the ceiling and bounced to the floor. The girl on the table kept her eyes closed. She saw no one. She heard voices coming from another world, a world with which she had no connection whatsoever. They were speaking of someone she did not want to know. She took refuge in the vision of the summer morning, sheltering within it even after the nurse placed the ether mask over her nose. A voice instructed her to count: un, deux, trois. She placed her mouth under the innocent member of the stone boy so that the cold water would spurt out over her face, her whole body: quatre, cinq, six, sept. If this was to be her last breath, it was good that it was happening here, by the statue of the boy, and good that it was early, before the mothers with their baby carriages filled the square. Standing by her head, the nurse pressed the mask to her face with a tender, womanly touch. Her right hand held the mask; her left stroked the girl s brow. The girl on the table surrendered to the nurse s cool fingers. She herself had always wanted to be a nurse. Respirez, mademoiselle. The voice was hypnotic. Twenty two, twenty three. The room began to spin. The voices drowned, surfaced, went under again. The waters were black and deep. Rather than foaming like the sea they were still: a stagnant lake of chloroform. She was a stripe of neon light trembling on the surface, pointing in no direction. She felt hands penetrating her intimate parts, sliding in and out like fish. The calm that had overtaken her was as deep as the water, like a whirlpool revolving around a single thought, a murky thought that did not touch her true self. The drama was taking place behind a curtain. On this side of the scene all was utterly calm. The voices emerging from the deep did not concern her. They were speaking of someone in whom she had not the slightest interest. They were talking about the girl lying on the table: such a young thing, four months pregnant. 2
4 In the recovery room, she recalled these words but did not want to think about them. With her eyes she followed the nurse gliding by with light, graceful steps. The nurse came to her side, wiped her face, removed the basin of vomit, tucked in her covers. Only then did she notice that she was lying near a window. The shutters were closed, but she could hear rain and see gray strips of daylight. Birds were stirring somewhere nearby. Probably there was a garden, flowers, trees. Across the room, a woman was vomiting, her face hidden behind a tangle of red locks. A young man with prematurely gray hair bent over her, helping her to settle back on the pillow and spreading out her curls in a fiery circle. The nurse moved from bed to bed. Her steps were rhythmic; they swaddled thought like ether masks, clouding the moment, keeping reality at bay. In the next bed, a woman was combing her hair. As she looked into the mirror, she addressed a listener who wasn t there. Could she be talking to me? the girl wondered. She unrolled an endless spool of words about her family, her husband, her children. Her husband was never satisfied, she said. They made love day and night, but it was no longer love; it was a nightmare. Her words pressed on the girl s spirit like a layer of asphalt. Feeling chilled to the bone, she leaned over the basin and vomited. On the bedside table she spied her watch. He who should be visiting was he late? Or perhaps not coming at all? The young man with prematurely gray hair was kissing the redhead s hands. She was still quite young, perhaps fifteen or sixteen. Her face was an interesting mix: a sharply drawn profile with high cheekbones and an upturned nose, a low hairline and a small mouth, open and enchanting. The woman in the next bed was packing her things. This was her fourth time in the hospital. Wrinkles showed through powder on her face. Her neck was layered in fat. She pulled up her stockings over blue veined legs. Her husband waited by her side, looking not at her but at the redhead. The girl wondered whether she envied the redhead. Would she, too, like a hand on her brow, a word whispered in her ear? Did she wish he would come? The redhead was French; the art of love was in her blood. She, on the other hand, was nothing more than an imitation, making a fool of herself by aping others. If she were to die here, everything would work itself out. Her friend would write to her father and say she had been killed in an accident. Or maybe he wouldn t. He was nothing but a stranger, after all. The redhead was kissing her lover s palm, covering it with both hands and holding it to her lips. Where she stood was somewhere in between the redheaded girl and the powdered lady. Except that she was not standing she was flying, her aircraft steered by erotic winds. Would she come back to earth and land safely on both feet? Her little room on the sixth floor would no doubt be growing dark by now, the gray patch of sky gradually disappearing from view. She would lie in her bed watching the gray walls darken and close in. She would count the footsteps on the stairs. Would anyone stop at her door? Do I want him to come? What do I have to say to him? What do I want to hear? A 3
5 virgin, four months pregnant No, she would not tell him, would not even consider it. He d paid for his pleasure. The account was settled, paid in full. How quickly it had happened, she thought. The very same week she d lost her job, her father s letter had arrived with the news that he was sick, needed an operation, and had no money. She owed her father a debt. He had sold his part of the inheritance to send her to Paris. In truth, he was about to remarry and wanted to be rid of his grown daughter. For her part, she wanted to be as far away as possible from the new couple. The letter was like a lock that slammed the shackles around her, psychological shackles from which she could not free herself or from which, perhaps, she did not wish to be freed. I need a loan, she told the man older, married, wealthy whose admiration for her was unbounded. The idea had entered her head unexpectedly; the words emerged from her mouth as if spoken not by her but by someone with the worldview of a Claudette or a Simone. How much? he asked. Five thousand francs. That s all? Yes, she said, to pay for my father s operation. You are a child, he said. It s not enough. As he spoke, he was locking the door, turning off the light. She did not see his face. She heard his voice, hot, insistent, hoarse. She thought of her father. Or maybe she did not think at all. She closed her eyes. How quickly it all happened. A double operation, father s and daughter s and Mother lying in her grave, doubly dishonored. One thought followed another, like links in a chain. She dozed, then woke. A new patient had been moved into the next bed and a nurse was preparing her for the operation. The redhead with the flawless profile, like Ingres s Odalisque, was filing her nails. She smiled at the empty chair where her lover had been sitting. A new day pushed at the tightly closed shutters. Only now did she feel the pain in her belly a sharp pain, as if a thousand dogs were gnawing at her insides. Her body was on fire, but she refused a sleeping pill. Can I bring you a lemonade? the nurse asked, concerned. Coffee or tea? No, she wanted nothing. She wanted to feel the pain down to her bones. She wanted to burn off the scar tissue, to peel off the mask, to know herself. In the green meadow of her youth she sees the girl playing with pieces of broken glass. She finds a miraculous splinter that reveals a wondrous world of red and green and blue. Strings of beads, green pearls. The nettles sparkle like seven suns and the stones in the road are golden coins. The blond peasant boy from across the river sticks out his foot to trip her and snatches away the magic shard. The girl cries. The girl inside her is still crying, has never stopped. The peasant boy has smashed the magic glass, stomped it to pieces. Is it still possible for me to become a nurse? she asked faintly. Of course it is, the nurse answered. Two years of study and this vomit basin will be yours. With all the trimmings. She turned to face the wall. The girl in the green meadow of long ago dries her eyes. She looked off into the distance, lost in thought, and fell asleep. 4
6 דער חובֿ זי איז געלעגן אױפֿן אָפּעראַציע טיש מיטן פּנים צום סופֿיט. איר אײבערשטער טײל קערפּער איז געװען שטײ ף פֿאַרפּאַנצערט מיט פּלאַסטישע בענדער. די קני האָט זי געהאַלטן אױפֿגעשטעלט, די פֿיס אָפּגעדעקט, אָפֿן. זי האָט ניט געטראַכט פֿון דער פֿאָרשטײענדיקער סכּנה. די ספֿקות און דעם זעלבסט רחמנות האָט זי איבערגעלאָזט אין איר מאַנסאַרדע שטיבל, דאָרט װוּ זײ זענען צו ערשט אױפֿגעקומען און זיך באַזעצט אין איר. זי האָט זײ צעהאַנגען, װי אַנאָנימע שירה גריסלעך אױף דעם זשעדנעם שטיקל הימל װאָס האָט זיך געשפּרײט װי אַ לאַטע איבער איר דאַך פֿענצטערל אױפֿן זעקסטן שטאָק. אױפֿן אָפּעראַצי ע טיש איז זי געװען רוי ק, אַ מין פּערװערזע רוי קײט װאָס נעמט אַרום געװיסע מענטשן װען אַלץ זעט אױס פֿאַר זײ פֿאַרלױרן. הינטער די אױגן דעקלעך האָט זי געהאַלטן אַ זומער פֿרימאָרגן, װאָס האָט זיך באַזעצט אױף די ראַנדן פֿון איר באַװוּסטזײ ן און ניט דערלאָזט אױפֿצונעמען די רעאַליטעט. ס איז געװען אַ פֿרימאָרגן אָן באַזונדערע פּאַסירונגען. די זון האָט נאָר װאָס דערגרײכט דעם ערשטן גאָרן פֿון סאַקרעקער, מיט װײכע גאָלדענע פֿינגער געזוכט אַ װעג דורך די רײ ך צעבלעטערטע קאַשטאַנבײמער, און אָנגערירט דאָס שטײנערע יי נגעלע, פֿון װעמענס גליד ס ריזלט אַ פֿאַלנדיקער שטראָם. אין דעם אָפּעראַצי ע צימער זענען קײן פֿענצטער ניטאָ. דאָס נעאָנליכט שטראָמט פֿון אוממיטלבאַרע קװאַלן, שלאָגט זיך אָן אין סופֿיט און נידערט אַראָפּ צום דיל. דאָס מײדל אױפֿן טיש האַלט די אױגן צוגעמאַכט. זי זעט קײנעם ניט. זי הערט שטימען װאָס קומען פֿון אַן אַנדערער װעלט מיט װעלכער זי האָט קײן שום שײ כות ניט. זײ רעדן װעגן עמעצן װאָס זי װיל ניט קענען. שיצט זי זיך אונטער דער װיזי ע פֿון זומערדיקן פֿרימאָרגן, שיצט זיך לאַנג, אױך נאָך דעם װי די קראַנקן שװעסטער האָט צוגעלײגט די עטערמאַסקע צו איר נאָז. זי הערט אַ שטים װאָס באַפֿעלט איר צו צײלן: Un, deux, trois (אײנס, צװײ, דרײ ). זי שטעלט אונטער דאָס מױל צום יי נגעלעס אומשולד. דאָס קװאַלנדיקע װאַסער איז קאַלט. עס גיסט זיך איבער איר פּנים, איבער איר לײ ב... Quatre, cinq, six, sept (פֿיר, פֿינף, זעקס, זיבן.) אױב דאָס איז דער לעצטער אָטעמצוג, טראַכט זי, איז גוט װאָס ס האָט פּאַסירט דאָ, בײ דער סטאַטוע פֿון יי נגעלע, גוט װאָס ס האָט פּאַסירט אין דער פֿרי, אײדער די מאַמעס מיט די קינדער װעגלעך פֿילן אָן דעם סקװער. די קראַנקן שװעסטער בײ איר צוקאָפּנס דריקט די מאַסקע צו איר פּנים. איר האַנט איז װײ בלעך װײך. מיט דער רעכטער האַנט האַלט זי די מאַסקע, מיט דער לינקער גלעט זי איר שטערן. דאָס מײדל אױפֿן טיש גיט זיך אונטער דער שװעסטערס קילע פֿינגער. אױך זי האָט אַלע יאָרן געװאָלט זײ ן אַ קראַנקן שװעסטער, טראַכט זי. 5
7 Mlle Respirez (אָטעמט פֿרײ לין) הערט זיך עמעצענס היפּנאָטישע שטים צװײ און צװאַנציק, דרײ און צװאַנציק דער צימער שװימט. די שטימעס טרינקען זיך. זײ טױכן אױף און גײען אונטער. די װאַסערן װאָס דעקן זײ איבער זענען שװאַרץ און טיף, זײ שױמען ניט װי דער ים, זײ שטײען פֿאַרגליװערט אױף אײן אָרט : אַ סטאַגנירטע אָזערע פֿול מיט כלאָראָפֿאָרם. זי, אַ פּאַס נעאָנליכט, ציטערט אױף דער אײבערפֿלאַך אָן אָנװײ ז, אָן ריכטונג. זי פֿילט די הענט װאָס דרינגען אַרײ ן אין אירע אינטימע ערטער, גליטשן ציך װי פֿיש אַרײ ן און אַרױס. די רו װאָס באַהערשט זי איז טיף װי דאָס װאַסער, װי דער װירבלראָד װאָס דרײט זיך אַרום אײן אײנציקן געדאַנק. אױך דער געדאַנק איז פֿאַרנעפּלט, רירט ניט אָן דעם עצם איך. די דראַמע װיקלט זיך הינטער אַ פֿירהאַנג. אױף דער זײ ט פֿון דער סצענע הערשט טאָטאַלע רו. די שטימעס װאָס קומען פֿון דער טיף גײען איר ניט אָן. זײ רעדן װעגן עמעצן װעמען זי װיל לחלוטין ניט קענען. זײ רעדן װעגן דעם מײדל װאָס ליגט אױפֿן טיש: אַ בתולה און פֿיר חדשים שװאַנגער. די דאָזיקע װערטער דערמאָנט זי זיך ערשט אין אַלגעמײנעם זאַל. זי װיל דערפֿון ניט טראַכטן, קוקט זי נאָך דער קראַנקן שװעסטער װאָס באַװעגט זיך גראַציעז, מיט לײ כטע פֿלינקע טריט. די קראַנקן שװעסטער כאַפּט אױף איר בליק, זי דערנענטערט זיך צו איר, זי װישט אַרום איר פּנים, נעמט אַװעק דאָס שיסעלע צום ברעכן, דעקט זי אַרום. ערשט איצט באַמערקט זי אַז זי ליגט לעבן אַ פֿענצטער. די לאָדנס זענען פֿאַרמאַכט. זי הערט דעם רעגן, זעט די גרױע פּאַסן טאָג. פֿײגעלעך רודערן ערגעץ נאָענט. מן הסתּם איז דאָ אַ גאָרטן, בײמער, בלומען. בײ דער קעגניבערדיקער װאַנט ברעכט אַ פֿרױ. אַ װאַלד מיט רױטע האָר פֿאַרשטעלט איר פּנים. אַ יונגער בחור מיט פֿריצײ טיק גרױע האָר בײגט זיך איבער איר. ער העלפֿט איר זיך אײ נאָרדענענען צוריק אױפֿן קישן, צעשפּרײט אירע האָר װי אַ פֿײ ערראָד. די שװעסטער גײט פֿון דעט צו בעט. אירע טריט זענען ריטמישע, זײ װיקלען זיך אַרום געדאַנק װי אַנאַסטעטישע מאַסקעס, זײ דערװײ טערן דאָס רעאַלע, פֿאַרנעפּלען דעם מאָמענט. אױפֿן שכנותדיקן בעטל קעמט זיך אַ פֿרױ די האָר. זי קוקט אין שפּיגל און רעדט צו ניטדאָי קע צוהערער. און אפֿשר רעדט זי גאָר צו איר? רעדט דורכן שפּיגל װי דורך אַ פּאָזיטיװן מאָסשטאַב. אַן אָן סופֿיקער שנור פֿון רײד. די שנור װיקלט זיך אַרום איר משפּחה, איר מאַן, אירע קינדער. איר מאַן זאָגט זי װערט קײן מאָל ניט זאַט. ליבע בײ טאָג און ליבע בײ נאַכט. ס איז אַ קאָשמאַר. אירע רײד לײגן זיך אױפֿן מײדלס געמיט װי רױער אַספֿאַלט. דער אײ נדרוק בלײ בט אױף אײביק פֿאַרקילט. זי בײגט זיך אַראָפּ, הײבט אױף דאָס שיסעלע, ברעכט אױס. אױפֿן טישל בײ איר זײ ט ליגט אַ זײגערל. דער, װאָס האָט געזאָלט קומען צו איר, האָט זיך פֿאַרשפּעטיקט? און אפֿשר װעט ער אין גאַנצן ניט קומען? 6
8 דער יונגער מאַן מיט די פֿריצײ טיק גרױע האָר קושט די הענט פֿון דעם רױט געלאָקטן מײדל. זי איז נאָך גאָר אַ יונגע. אפֿשר פֿופֿצן און אפֿשר זעכצן. זי איז אַ געמיש פֿון פֿאַרשײדענע ריטמען. איר פּראָפֿיל איז שאַרף געצײכנט: הױכע קינבאַקן, דאָס נעזל פֿאַרריסן, דער שטערן נידעריק, דאָס מױל קלײן, אָפֿן, פֿול מיט חן. די פֿרױ אױפֿן שכנותדיקן בעטל פּאַקט שױן אירע זאַכן. זי איז שױן דאָ אין שפּיטאָל צום פֿערטן מאָל. הינטערן פּודער ברעכט זיך איר פּנים. די ליני ע פֿון איר האַלדז איז פֿאַרגאָסן מיט פֿעטס. זי ציט אַרױף די זאָקן אױף אירע בלױ אָדערדיקע פֿיס. איר מאַן װאַרט שױן אױף איר. ער קוקט ניט אין איר זײ ט, ער קוקט אױף דעם רױטהאָריקן מײדל. איז זי מקנא דאָס רױטהאָריקע מײדל? װיל זי אױך פֿילן אַ האַנט אױף איר שטערן? הערן אַ װאָרט שעפּטשען אין איר אױער? װיל זי ער זאָל קומען? דאָס רױטהאָריקע מײדל איז אַ פֿראַנצױזינקע, די קונסט פֿון ליבע איז אין איר בלוט. זי אָבער איז ניט מער װי אַן אימיטאַציע, געװאָלט עמעצן נאָכטאָן און אפֿשר גאָר אָפּטאָן אַ מין להכעיס זיך אַלײן. װאָלט זי דאָ געשטאָרבן, װאָלט זיך שױן אַלץ אַלײן פֿאַרענטפֿערט. איר פֿרײ נד װאָלט געשריבן צו איר טאַטן אַז זי איז אומגעקומען אין אַן אומגליקספֿאַל. און אפֿשר װאָלט ער דאָס אױך ניט געטאָן. נאָך אַלעמען איז ער דאָך אַ פֿרעמדער. דאָס רױטהאָריקע מײדל קושט איצט איר געליבטנס הענט. זי האַלט זײ ן דלאָניע בײ אירע ליפּן און דעקט זי צו מיט בײדע הענט. ערגעץ צװישן דעם רױטהאָריקן מײדל און דער פֿאַרפּודערטער דאַמע שטײ ט זי. נײן, זי שטײט ניט. זי פֿליט. עראָטישע װינטן קערעװען איר לופֿטשיף... װעט זי נאָך בשלום לאַנדן? װעט זי נאָך שטײן בלײ בן מיט די פֿיס אױף דער ערד? אין איר מאַנסאַרדע שטיבל אױפֿן זעקסטן שטאָק טונקלט שױן אַװדאי. די גרױע הימל לאַטע װערט ביסלעכװײ ז אָפּגעװישט. זי װעט ליגן אױפֿן בעט, די גרױע װענט װעלן װערן גרױער, ענגער. זי װעט צײלן די טריט אױף די נאַקעטע טרעפּ. װעט זיך עמעצער אָפּשטעלן בײ איר טיר? װיל איך טאַקע ער זאָל קומען? װאָס האָב איך אים צו זאָגן? װאָס װיל איך פֿון אים הערן? אַ בתולה פֿיר חדשים שװאַנגער... נײן, זי װעט אים דאָס ניט דערצײלן. זי קען אפֿילו פֿון דעם ניט טראַכטן. ער האָט באַצאָלט פֿאַר דעם פֿאַרגעניגן, דער חשבון איז אונטערגעצױגן, באַצאָלט, פֿאַרענדיקט. װי שנעל דאָס האָט פּאַסירט, טראַכט זי, די זעלבע װאָך װאָס זי איז געבליבן אַרבעטסלאָז איז געקומען דער בריװ פֿון איר טאַטן אַז ער איז קראַנק. ער האָט געשריבן אַז ער מוז דורכגײן אַן אָפּעראַציע און קײן געלט איז ניטאָ. נאָך אַלץ, איז זי דעם טאַטן שולדיק אַ חובֿ. ער האָט פֿאַרקױפֿט זײ ן טײל פֿון דער ירושה צו דעקן אירע רײ זע הוצאות קײן פּאַריז. אמת, ער האָט זיך דעמאָלט געקליבן חתונה צו האָבן און געװאָלט װאָס גיכער פּטור װערן פֿון זײ ן דערװאַקסענער טאָכטער. אױך זי האָט געװאָלט 7
9 װאָס װײ טער אַװעק פֿון דעם נײ עם פּאָרפֿאָלק. דער בריװ איז װי אַ שלאָס װאָס פֿאַרהאַקט דעם רינג, אַ פּסיכאָלאָגישער רינג פֿון װעלכן זי קען זיך ניט באַפֿרײ ען, און אפֿשר װיל זי זיך ניט בפֿרײ ען? איך נײטיק זיך אין אַ הלוואה האָט זי געזאָגט צו איר באַװײ בטן, באַיאָרטן, רײ כן און אומדערמידלעכן באַװוּנדערער. די אידעע איז צו איר געקומען אומגעריכט. זי האָט אַרױסגעזאָגט די װערטער װי זײ װאָלטן געקומען ניט פֿון איר, נאָר פֿון קלאָדעט, אָדער סימאָנס װעלטבאַנעם. װיפֿל דאַרפֿסטו? האָט ער געפֿרעגט. פֿינף טױזנט פֿראַנק. דאָס אַלץ? יאָ, אַזױ פֿיל דאַרף קאָסטן מײ ן פֿאָטערס אָפּעראַצי ע. דו ביסט אַ קינד זאָגט ער דאָס איז ניט גענוג. בעת ער רעדט, פֿאַרשליסט ער די טיר פֿון אינעװײניק. ער פֿאַרלעשט דעם לאָמפּ. זי זעט ניט זײ ן פּנים. זי הערט זײ ן שטים הײס, צודרינגלעך, כריפּעװאַטע. זי טראַכט פֿון איר טאַטן. און אפֿשר טראַכט זי אין גאַנצן ניט? זי מאַכט צו די אױגן... װי שנעל דאָס אַלץ איז געשען. אַ טאָפּלטע אָפּעראַציע, דעם טאַטנס און דער טאָכטערס... און די מאַמע אין קבֿר ליגט אַ טאָפּלט פֿאַרשעמטע. געדאַנקען לױפֿן, קײטלען זיך אײנע אין אַנדערן. זי דרעמלט אײ ן און װעקט זיך איבער. דאָס שכנותדיקע בעט איז שױן פֿאַרנומען פֿון אַן אַנדערער פּאַצי ענטקע. אַ קראַנקן שװעסטער גרײט זי צו צו דער אָפּעראַציע. דאָס רױט געלאָקטע מײדל מיטן פּערפֿעקטן פּראָפֿיל פֿון אינגערס אָדאַליסק פֿײ לט זיך די נעגל. זי שמײכלט צום לײדיקן בענקל װאָס ער האָט נאָר װאָס פֿאַרלאָזט. דורך פֿאַרהאַקטע לאָדנס שפּאַרט אַ נײ ער טאָג. ערשט איצט דערפֿילט זי דעם װײטיק אין בױך. דער װײטיק איז שאַרף װי טױזנט כּלבֿים װאָלטן געביסן אירע געדערעם. דאָס לײ ב ברענט. זי זאָגט זיך אָפּ צו נעמען אַ באַטױבונג פּיל. די קראַנקן שװעסטער קוקט זי אָן מיט אײ נזעעניש. קען איך אײ ך ברענגען אַ לימאָנאַדע, קאַװע, טײ? נײן, זי װיל גאָרניט. זי װיל פֿילן דעם װײטיק ביז אין בײן. זי װיל אױסברענען דאָס װילדפֿלײש, אָפּשײלן די מאַסקע, דערקענען זיך אַלײן. אױף דער גרינער לאָנקע פֿון איר יוגנט זעט זי דאָס מײדעלע, זי שפּילט זיך אין שערבלעך. זי האָט נאָר װאָס געפֿונען אַ װוּנדער שערבל און אַנטדעקט אַ פֿאַנטאַסטישע װעלט, אַ װעלט פֿון רױט און גרין און בלױ. בײ טשן קרעלן, גרינע 8
10 פּערל, די קראָפּעװע גליט װי זיבן זונען, די שטײנער אױפֿן װעג זענען גאָלדענע מטבעות. דאָס בלאָנדע שײגעצל פֿון יענער זײ ט טײ ך שטעלט איר אונטער אַ פֿיסל. ער רײ סט אַרױס דאָס שערבל פֿון אירע הענט. דאָס מײדעלע װײנט. דאָס מײדעלע אין איר װײנט נאָך איצט, װײנט נאָך אַלץ. דאָס צױבער שערבל האָט דאָס שײגעצל צעבראָכן, מיט די פֿיס צעטראָטן... איז נאָך מעגלעך פֿאַר מיר צו װערן אַ קראַנקן שװעסטער? פֿרעגט זי מיט אַ שװאַכן קול. געװיס ענטפֿערט די קראַנקן שװעסטער נאָך צװײ יאָר שטודירן איז דאָס שיסעלע צום ברעכן אין גאַנצן אײ ערס, מיט אַלע צוגאָבן דערצו. זי דרײט זיך אױס צו דער װאַנט. דאָס מײדעלע אױף יענער װײ טער, גרינער לאָנקע װישט זיך די אױגן, זי קוקט, טראַכט און דרימלט אײ ן. 9
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