I made a point of observing them and adopting their practises: the way they softened the raw leather, how they would swiftly peel a boot from the wooden form, even the way they sharpened their blades with a steel file. At the same time, I also tried to look inside, into their souls, to see what it meant to be a part of the working masses...what set them apart like a special, closed caste. And where did they get such a hatred for us, the so-called "intelligentzia"?

I started spending more time with them, listening in on their conversations. Often, my ears would be burning from the foul language which they employed in their ordinary conversation. When they would start joking and making fun at my expense, I simply pretended I didn’t understand, as if it were nothing to do with me.

From my "expeditions" into their souls, I came to the conclusion that their ridicule of intellectuals was not on account of hatred, but rather a by-product of their own bitterness, their own inferiority complex. Because from their very earliest years, they had been made to feel the bitter taste of need and deprivation, which drove them to go out to work in the factory, when they would have rather been "free as a bird" to go and play like all other children.

They worked for years under conditions of near-slavery. Meanwhile, the sons and daughters of the well-to-do were raised in luxury and comfort, partaking of all the good things in life. They considered themselves to be more important, and looked down on the workers, as though they were a lower form of life. And so there grew in the hearts of those workers a hatred, an enmity toward the sons and daughters of the wealthy, with their pround student’s uniforms....and to all intellectuals in general.

And now, since the outbreak of the war, when the factory suddenly became a place of refuge against mortal dangers, the intellectuals had begun to show up at the factory on a daily basis...the very same ones who, until then, had wanted nothing to do with the working class. Now they were clamoring to be let it...so they might also become "workers", to hide behind the shoulders of the real working class. It was hardly surprising that all this aroused a feeling or desire for revenge on the part of those who had been opressed for generations.

And so no matter how much I tried to find favor in their eyes, to draw near to them....I was not successful. It was as though a thick wall stood between us. Friday evenings, and Saturday afternoons, when the factory was closed, I used to drop in, uninvited, to their dormitories, which were located not far from the factory. I used to show up with a little book of Sholom Aleykhem, or a volume of tales by Avraham Reyzen under my coat, and offer to read for them a story. But every time, I would be met with an ouburst of ridicule and laughter:

"Look, it’s the "geek" again!"

"Who needs him? Who sent for him?"

"Better he should go to the "nerds" in the House of Study!"

"Is there no rest from him?!"

Someone else, sitting in clouds of cigarette smoke and playing cards, made a wisecrack: "Come here, little nerd, I’ll show you how to make some easy money!"

And others, lying outstretched on their wooden cots, pelted me with shells from the sunflower seeds, which they always seemed to be crunching on....

The truth is, that I always found a few older workers, who did indeed long to hear a Yiddish story. And much as they enjoyed my story-telling, it was hard enough for them to hear me over the carryings-on of the young hell-raisers, with their shouting and their singing of bawdy Russian street-songs. As a result, when I was done, I would leave feeling ashamed and downcast, with a heavy heart, as though I had fallen into the hands of a company of soldiers, who took pleasure in tormenting a young recruit.

In particular, I had to put up with all kinds of indignities from one young worker by the name of Hennekh, who was about my age. By nature, I swear he was a real joker. He used to like to play the kind of tricks that would make you hold your sides with laughter. He would immitate the old boss Harkavey, with his grey beard, the way he used to sit in his office with a skullcap on his head, swaying over a prayer-book; he would toss a piece of raw leather over his head, and mimick his whole routine; he also did the supervisor with his short-sighted eyes, who everyone used to tremble before with the fear of death.

In addition, Hennekh possessed a particular talent for drawing pictures: people, faces, all kinds of cartoons. He always carried with him a set of colored pencils, brushes, and paints...so wherever he was, he could draw or paint...on a piece of paper, on the walls and doors; wherever he could.

The themes of his "art" were most often us, the "geeks" and "nerds", as they used to call us. He, the artist from generations on, didn't show us the slightest bit of mercy, not a trace of sympathy. What did he not do to us? It didn't take but a few strokes of his brush or pencil, and this one would be transformed into a rabbit, that one into a monkey, or some other such wild apparition.

He caricatured a middle-aged worker as he stood with his fat belly bent bent over his work station with his "doggie" in his hand, his sparse hair sticking out like the bristles from a broom, drops of sweat the size of kidney beans flew in all directions from his cultured, intellectual face. Another time, he captured on paper the tall, blond woman who was the only female refugee who worked in our all-male section. He portrayed her as she stood among the large buckets of dye, painting the boots, with a large brush. And she herself was so covered from head to toe in black dye, that you could harldy tell the difference between her, the buckets of dye, and the black leather boots.

This Hennekh was much beloved by all his fellow workers. Because Hennekh, with his crazy stunts, his clever "inventions", and with his wild cartoons, helped to drive away the constant monotony of the dark, stinking factory, with its long tedious hours that seemed to drag on endlessly from early morning until late at night.

Even when the strict supervisor would catch him in the act of "being crazy", he pretended as though he didn't see...because he knew, that when it came time at the end of the day to tally up the day’s production, that Hennekh, the "joker", would be finished his portion with a little bit extra to spare. Because as soon as that scrawny little fellow turned his attention to his work, his hands would virtually catch fire. At that moment, there was no force in the world that could slow him down. His tall officer’s boots, which were fashioned from a single piece of leather, in his hands all but took on the appearance of an real live leg. And from great joy, that he had taken a ordinary piece of raw leather and transformed it into such a work of art, he would break out in a little dance, a kind of "kozatchouk" (a Russian dance) from which all the workers in our section took great satisfaction.

Such a "good old boy" was Hennekh, the favorite of all the workers. But for us young workers, he was trouble, bad news. He picked on us constantly, making our lives miserable. And most of all, he picked on me! Something about my whole appearance seemed to remind him that I belonged to a different world than he. He was small and puny, his face covered with pimples, his teeth crooked and yellow, and bow-legged to boot. I was tall, with smooth cheeks and a thick head of hair, which seemed to virtually cry out to him, that I, his contemporary, came from a completely different tribe.

Who knows how long I would have been able to stand all the troubles and insults from that enemy of mine, Heennekh, if it had not been for the circumstance which came upon me from out of the blue, and altogether changed the attitude towards me on the part pf all the other workers, and Hennekh in particular?

The harsh, cold Yaroslavl winter had settled in, with its Siberian frost. I had no warm clothing. The cold north winds cut through my thin jacket without mercy. Many times, in those frozen grey mornings, I would stumble into the factory barely alive, with frozen ears and feet.

My meager earnings as an "associate" of the factory allowed me little more than a miserable piece of black bread with herring, with a cup of ersatz tea. On account of this diet, I became weaker and weaker from one day to the next. In addition, the constant heat in the factory, with its long hot pipes which ran the length and breadth the ceiling, further took its toll on my health.

One morning, standing at my work-station, I felt my head start to spin. I felt alternately hot and cold. My face broke out in sweat. Strange shapes and colors started to swirl before my eyes. All at once it seemed that the floor had dropped away from under my feet, and I was sinking into a deep pit. I tried to grab onto the table, and couldn’t. The whole building seemed to shake...with a heavy thud, I fell down on the wet cement floor, where I lay unconscous in the filth of scraps of leather mixed with oil and pitch. All of a sudden, there was a commotion...the workers ruched to me, trying to revive me with snow and cold water.

When I came to my senses, I found myself lying in the front office, stretched out on a long table. Around me there stood a doctor in a military uniform, giving directions to a pair of workers, who stood there with rolled-up sleeves, rubbing me with alcohol. I had no idea what was happenning to me. How did I come to be here? And who were these strange faces hovering above me...and what do they want from me? I softly pleaded:

"Let me sleep....let me sleep....."

They took me with an ambulance from the town’s "First Aid" to a hospital, which was packed with wounded and seriously ill soldiers. The Jewish doctor, himself one of the homeless, took a particular interest in my health and recovery. On his recommendation, I was given special attention by the Christian nurses.

The workers from my factory, who up until that time had picked on me and subjected me to all kinds of insults, now visited me almost every day after work. And they came not with empty hands, but rather loaded down with gifts of all good things: fruit, candies, chocolate and pastries, as though I were a close relative of theirs. It seemed that they couldn't do too much for me!

After about two weeks, when I was allowed to leave the hospital, there came to see me a "delegation" from the factory with the supervisor at their head. They bought a large basket of clothing that they had bought specially for me at the flea-market. Even my boss, Harkavey, had sent me a gift...a new pair of boots. They outfitted me from head to toe, as though I were a bride-groom about to step under the canopy to wed a poor maiden.

They dressed me in warm underwear; next a topcoat; on top of that, a long shirt that hung down to my knees; next, a kind of trousers, which were lined with fleece; over these trousers, a wool sweater; and over the sweater, a kind of leather coat with a wide fur-trimmed collar from God knows what kind of Siberian beast! Who knows how many Russian "Ivans" had already been kept warm in these clothes? And on top of everything else, they gave me a great fur hat. In this outfit, I looked not so much like a Jewish refugee as a did a real Russian wagon-driver, who sat outside all day in his "drozhky" waiting for a passenger.

The delegaion of workers, who had shown such deep concern for my welfare, now led me through the factory with a great parade, ending in the section where I worked. The crowd received me with a rousing cheer. They surrounded me from all sides, extending me warm, heart-felt "welcome backs", as though I were God knows what kind of great hero?

From that day on, I was no longer "the German", the "nerd", the "geek".....instead, a real "one-of-ours", with all the recognitions and priviledges of a real leather worker....