A feeling of estrangement crept over me at the sight of the
neighborhood. No, it was not exactly a feeling of estrangement, but
some other feeling, something akin to what we feel at the
recollection of the pain caused by long-forgotten troubles. I can
hardly make it clear to you; it was not unlike what an old man feels
after a bad dream of the days of his youth.
It was about this time of the year. The roads were just as bad as
now, the slush just as deep. And it was as nauseating to sit in the
coach only to watch the glittering mud and count the slow steps of
the horses. In a season like this it is certainly much more
agreeable to dismount and walk. That was just what I did. My
native town was not far away: only once uphill, once downhill, and
there was the inevitable cemetery, which must be passed when one
enters a Jewish village. The horses could hardly move, and I
overtook them very soon, as I took a short cut, and struck into a
path across the peasants' fields. I allowed myself that privilege,
because at that time I was still wearing my uniform with the brass
buttons shining brightly.
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