"You mean the blotches on my back? That's from falling off the trapeze. It happened on Easter. My father is still lying in bed, but I am quite well now."
I lifted his shirt. On his back, running down from his left shoulder to the side, was a wide dark scratch which had now become dried up into a thick crust. While he was exhibiting his tricks the wound broke open in several spots and red blood was now trickling from the openings.
"It doesn't hurt any more," said he with a smile. "It doesn't hurt, it only itches."
And bravely, as it becomes a hero, he looked in my eyes and went on, speaking like a serious grown-up person:
"You think—I have been doing this for myself? Upon my word—I have not. My father . . . there is not a crust of bread in the house, and my father is lying badly hurt. So you see, I have to work hard. And to make matters worse, we are Jews, and everybody laughs at us. Good-bye."
He spoke with a smile, cheerfully and courageously. With a nod of his curly head, he quickly went on, passing by the houses
