Jakob the Liar by Jurek Becker

pair of scissors, and to the accompaniment of secret prayers and tears of laughter, the matter was taken care of on the spot, but there have been worse cases too.
    Herschel has taken the only possible way out: he hides his earlocks. He is smuggling them through these times. Summer and winter he wears a hat. Presumably one is still allowed to wear a hat: a black fur hat with earflaps that can be fastened under the chin. In the sun the hat is terribly hot, but it was the only one he could get hold of, and for his purposes it is eminently suitable. We nondevout ones, even his brother Roman, smiled and made our little jokes only during the first warm week. After that we lost interest: Herschel must know what he’s doing.
    We hoist a crate onto the very top; he wipes the sweat from his face and asks me, while we are picking up the next one, what I think of that business. I know at once what he is talking about and tell him I’m already wild with joy and can think of nothing else. Everything I once owned will belong to me again, everything except Hannah, who was executed. There will be trees again; in my parents’ garden I can see myself sitting in the walnut tree, on such slender branches that my mother is almost ready to faint; right there in the tree I stuff myself with walnuts. My fingers turn so brown from the shells that it takes weeks for the stains to disappear, but Herschel doesn’t seem so enthusiastic.

J acob lifts a crate onto the edge of the freight car. Why all the hurry? Jacob rushes back to the pile with Mischa at his heels. As of yesterday, Jacob is fortune’s darling, one of the elect. Everyone is after him, the big fellows as well as the little ones; everyone wants to work with him, with the man who has a direct line to God. Mischa was the first in line, the first to lend a hand when Jacob’s eye fell on a crate, and now he’s running after him. The fairest way would be to raffle him off, with so-and-so many blanks and one grand prize; then everyone would have the same chance at the supreme stroke of luck, at what has suddenly become so important: being close to Jacob. Only Jacob looks disgruntled: thanks a lot for that kind of luck, five or ten times today he’s already been asked — confidentially and hopefully, even by complete strangers — what the radio has been saying. Five or ten times he hasn’t known how to answer, has merely repeated what he said yesterday, “Bezanika,” or put his fingers to his lips with a conspiratorial “Sssh!” or said nothing and walked on in annoyance. And all this annoyance has been foisted on him by that stupid beanpole who is now scurrying after him, all innocence, in unwarranted joyous anticipation. Something no one could possibly have foreseen. They are behaving like kids, like people eagerly clustering around a bulletin board. Barring a miracle, it will be at best a few hours before the sentries start noticing. Jacob would have welcomed such a crowd in normal times; his shop was open every day except
shabbes
, all year round, and there was a radio in clear view behind the counter: people could listen to whatever they liked. But there you people mostly stayed away, each of you had to be treated like a king, otherwise you’d leave and not come back; and now you’re treating
me
like a king and won’t leave and keep coming back. A fellow needs a bodyguard for protection against you.
    Mischa has no idea what furious thoughts are being ignited so close to him, that it is rage that makes Jacob walk so briskly. They haul a few crates, and Mischa imagines that it will go on like this until noon; he fails to notice the hostile looks directed at him from time to time, more and more often. Until the pot boils over, until Jacob stops in his tracks, in the hope that Mischa will walk on, as far away as possible. But Mischa stops too, looking puzzled: he really is totally unaware, so he might as well be told.
    “Please, Mischa,” Jacob says in an agonized voice,