The Parasite
Published in Issue #31 Translated from Yiddish by Faith Jones subscribe to unlock the full storySunday at dawn, while birds still slept in their nests, Khatshe the Rag Man would harness his horse, an old nag with one eye. The knotted reins, the worn-out tackle, the hemp ropes, the nag, the rag man’s green-brown jacket, and the man himself silently posed the question: For how long, oh God?
Khaye-Hinde would bustle out of the house in her coat, which was shiny like a metal plate: all the velvet was completely worn off, except under the collar. She would glance at the wagon, and at Khatshe, with black eyes like wells of sorrow. Then she would spring onto the flatbed like a man, and say:
“Khatshe, don’t dawdle. Pick up the reins. The beggar is three villages over by now.”
She would spend the whole week travelling around with Khatshe, to all the villages and hamlets, sweeping out any peasants’ attics where she thought she could find a rag or scrap of fabric.
But Friday afternoons, come hell or high water, Khaye-Hinde went home. No sooner would she have stepped down off the wagon than the chimney would begin to release a curl of smoke. Still wearing her bald coat and a headscarf that was so patched it looked like a head of cabbage, walking through the narrow vestibule on her way into the kitchen, she would grab a few pieces of wood, throw them into the oven, light the stove, throw on a few pots and pans of water to give the children a...
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