Job by Joseph Roth

motionlessly, pressed their pounding hearts against the wet earth, their hearts’ farewell to their homeland. Then they were ordered to stand up. They came to a shallow wide ditch, a light flashed to their left, it was the light of the guard hut. They crossed the ditch. Dutifully, but without aiming, the guard fired his rifle behind them.
    â€œWe’re out!” cried a voice.
    At that moment the sky brightened in the east. The men lookedback to their homeland, over which the night still seemed to lie, and turned again toward the day and the foreign.
    One began to sing, all joined in, singing they began to march. Only Shemariah did not sing along. He thought about his immediate future (he possessed two rubles); about the morning at home. In two hours at home his father would rise, murmur a prayer, clear his throat, gargle, go to the bowl and splash water. His mother would blow into the samovar. Menuchim would babble something into the morning, Miriam would comb white down feathers from her black hair. All this Shemariah saw more clearly than he had ever seen it when he was still at home and himself a part of the domestic morning. He scarcely heard the singing of the others, only his feet took up the rhythm and marched along.
    An hour later he glimpsed the first foreign town, the blue smoke from the first diligent chimneys, a man with a yellow armband who received the arrivals. A tower clock struck six.
    The Singers’ wall clock also struck six. Mendel rose, gargled, cleared his throat, murmured a prayer, Deborah already stood at the stove and blew into the samovar, Menuchim babbled from his corner something incomprehensible, Miriam combed her hair in front of the murky mirror. Then Deborah slurped the hot tea, still standing at the stove. “Where is Shemariah now?” she said suddenly. All had been thinking of him.
    â€œGod will help him!” said Mendel Singer. And thus dawned the day.
    And thus dawned the days that followed, empty days, miserable days. A house without children, thought Deborah. I bore them all, I suckled them all, a wind has blown them away. She looked around for Miriam, she rarely found her daughter at home. Menuchim alone remained with his mother. He always stretched out his arms when she passed his corner. And when she kissed him, he sought her breast like an infant. Reproachfully she thought of the blessing that was so slow in its fulfillment, and she doubted whether she would live to see Menuchim’s health.
    The house was silent when the singsong of the studying boys ceased. It was silent and dark. It was winter again. They saved petroleum. They lay down early to sleep. They sank thankfully into the kind night. From time to time Jonas sent a greeting. He served in Pskov, enjoyed his usual good health and had no difficulties with his superiors.
    Thus the years passed.

VI
    On a late summer afternoon a stranger entered the house of Mendel Singer. Door and window stood open. The flies clung still, black and sated to the hot sunlit walls, and the singsong of the pupils streamed from the open house into the white street. Suddenly they noticed the strange man in the doorframe and fell silent.Deborah rose from her stool. From the other side of the street Miriam hurried over, holding the wobbling Menuchim firmly by the hand. Mendel Singer stood before the stranger and scrutinized him. He was an extraordinary man. He wore a mighty black high-crowned hat, wide light-colored flapping pants, sturdy yellow boots, and like a flag a bright red tie fluttered over his deep green shirt. Without moving, he said something, apparently a greeting, in an incomprehensible language. It sounded as if he were speaking with a cherry in his mouth. Green stems were sticking out of his coat pockets, anyhow. His smooth, very long upper lip rose slowly like a curtain and revealed a strong, yellow set of teeth reminiscent of horses. The children laughed, and even Mendel Singer smiled. The stranger pulled out