had said something that had made the miller scratch his head under his hat.
"Perhaps you don't know even yet what day this is?"
"How can I keep track of every Jewish holiday? Am I a servant of Jews?" retorted the miller angrily.
"Every holiday, indeed! That's just it; this isn't like every holiday. They only have one like this every year. And let me tell you something: no other people in the whole world have a holiday like this one."
"You don't say so!"
"You've heard about Khapun, I suppose?"
"Aha!"
The miller only whistled. Of course, he might have guessed it! And he peeped in through the window of the Jewish khata. The floor was strewn with hay and straw; in two and three branched candlesticks slender tallow candles were burning; he could hear a humming that seemed to come from several huge, lusty bees. It was Yankel's young second wife and a few Jewish children mumbling and humming their unintelligible prayers with closed eyes. There was, however, something remarkable about these prayers; it seemed as if each one of these Jews were possessed by some alien creature, sitting there in him weeping and lamenting, remembering something and praying for something. But to whom were they praying, and for what were they asking? No one could have said.
