broke rank, each one
going his own way. Jean Buche, who had never seen any other town than
Pfalzbourg, did not leave me for a moment. Our ticket was for Elias
Meyer, butcher, in the rue St. Valery. When we reached the house the
butcher was cutting meat in the arched and grated window, and was
anything but pleased to see us, and received us very ungraciously. He
was a fat, red, round-faced Jew, with silver rings on his fingers and
in his ears. His thin, yellow-skinned wife came down exclaiming that
they had "had lodgers for two nights before, that the mayor's secretary
did it on purpose, that he sent soldiers every day, and that the
neighbors did not have them," and so on.

But they allowed us to enter after all. The daughter came and stared
at us, and behind her was a fat servant-woman, frizzled and very dirty.
I seem to see those people before me still, in that old room with its
oak wainscoting, and the great copper lamp hanging from the ceiling,
and the grated window looking into the little court. The daughter, who
was very pale and had very black eyes, said something to her mother and
then the servant was ordered to show us to the garret, to the beggars'
chamber, for all the Jews feed and shelter beggars on Friday. My
comrade from Harberg did not complain, but I was indignant. We
followed the servant up a winding stair slippery with filth, to the
room. It was separated from the rest of the garret by slats, through
which we could see the dirty linen. It was lighted by a little window
like a lozenge in the roof. Even if I had not been so miserable I
should have thought it abominable. There was only one chair and a
straw mattress on the floor and one single coverlet for us both. The
servant stood staring at us at the door, as if she expected thanks or
compliments. I took off my knapsack, sad enough as you can imagine,
and Jean Buche did the same. The servant turned to go downstairs when
I cried out: "Wait a minute, we will go down too, we do not want to
break our necks on those stairs." We changed our shoes and stockings
and fastened the door and went down to the shop to buy some meat. Jean
went to the baker opposite for some bread, and as our ticket gave us a
place at the fire we went to the kitchen to make our soup. The butcher
came to see us just as we were finishing our supper. He was smoking a
big Ulm pipe. He asked where we were from. I was so indignant I would
not answer him, but Jean Buche