A hulking creature, she had fiery red cheeks under small greasy green eyes, and pendulous blue lips. Her fat hands were always red, as if she had just finished grating beets.

Tall, thick, unyielding, clumsy as a chunk of wood, she kneaded sweet gingerbread dough; winterlong, summerlong, she kneaded the dense dough. In the summer it was hard work. Simmering drops of sweat would crawl slowly down her forehead, down her face, and hang from the tip of her nose. Her nose cried out to be scratched, just to be swabbed with her sleeve—but there was no time, the dough must be kneaded. In the wintertime a bit of her neighbor's roof, covered with sober snow, showed through the window, and Hvedke the water carrier's beard was covered with ice fragments like the crystals of a luster. Then it was good to bend over the big mixing trough and knead the dough, sunning herself, as it were, in a private summertime. A sweet warmth crept through all her bones; her whole body grew lighter. Her shoulders seemed to move uncoaxed, and the dough rose and sank, sank and rose again, pliable as rubber.

Brayne's mother, Asne, aged and broken before her time, stood in the market square all day, selling gingerbread and roasted poppyseeds to the village peasants. She cursed and wrangled with her competitors over a penny sale, and then came home frozen, creased, on winter nights. Before the blueness of her body could fade she began her grumbling.

"Look at the Girl sitting home eating and drinking! If she only tried freezing all day in that market, then she'd know what life was really like. She'd learn what a big favor she does me by staying home and kneading! You'd think she was leading a hard life!"

This was the argument Asne muttered to herself as she blew on her icy hands and rubbed her feet together, trying to get warm. A thin woman, small, frostbitten, in muddied men's shoes, she looked like a stray bee deprived of her winter rest. Asne flew through the house, angry and buzzing, and aware that no one heard her and no one would help her.

Yet Brayne watched her, like a cow numb before the slaughter. Zavel, that old drunkard and gingerbread baker, would get off the sofa at the sound of his wife's voice and bow to her.

"Bless you, madam, give me a few cents for a drink, bless you."

Asne, bumbling about the room and blowing on her fingers, would ask, "And how would you like the plague?"

"Bless you, madam," Zavel answered, bowing again, "a Jew owes one hundred benedictions a day, and I haven't made one yet."

So Zavel joked, humoring his wife. But he did not humor his daughter. All day he sprawled on the straw sofa, his drunkard's head shaking, as he listened to the hissing of the thick honeydough, to the quivering and crackling of the heavy chair and the deep trough moving under her
 strong, masculine fists. Sometimes a chicken duel or a goat battle outside the window would catch Brayne's attention, and her red hands would stick in the dough while her small eyes stared. Zavel would leap up, startled, like a child who is almost asleep until his mother stops singing. He missed the hissing of the dough, the tumult in the trough.

"Girl!" he would yell, hoarsely drunk and impatient. "Girl, knead! And may your bones rot!"

Zavel often failed to wheedle money out of his wife for his "benedictions." On those days Zavel seethed, and as soon as he saw Brayne's eyes wandering, he would sit up cautiously, pull a muddy shoe slowly and quietly off his foot, close one bleary eye for good aim and fling the shoe right at Brayne's side or at her elbow or even at her head. Then he would croak happily, "Well, aha?"

"Ouch!" Brayne would squeak in muffled pain, hurling herself upon the dough, quickly, quickly, so forcefully that the windows shook.

She never said more than "ouch." She didn't even turn in the direction from which the shoe came—she knew what it meant. The dough kept up its hissing and the trough its creaking beneath her heavy pummeling. And Zavel sat on the sofa with one shoe on, scratching himself and listening to the dough's song; calmed himself and lay down again. But, remembering, he would heave himself up once more. "Girl, my shoe!"

Brayne would kick back her father's shoe, now an inert weapon, without even turning around. The shoe slithered swiftly over the flour-pasty floor and came straight at Zavel. Zavel caught it, pulled it on slowly, stretched out once more on the dusty straw sofa, and dreamed. He dreamed and listened.

Brayne could sense the times when her father was sound asleep. She would straighten up warily and gaze with shining eyes at the locked cupboard that stood near him. There lay the freshly baked gingerbread and the roasted poppyseeds she loved. Her broad nostrils trembled, but she was afraid to sneak over and pry the cupboard open with a knife. The memory of the beating she had received the last time she had tried was still strong. When her mother had returned home and found some of the poppyseeds gone, she attacked the Girl with unearthly curses and slaps at her face, while Zavel had hopped around her, thumping the Girl's sides.

"May the poppyseeds explode and leak out of you, you piece of flesh!" her mother swore, and struck.

"Amen!" Zavel gasped, swinging a shoe at Brayne's back.

Two little people danced about her: a skinny Jewish woman with cold wrinkled hands, and a small Jew with matted hair, one shoe in his hand and the other on his foot. Both cursed and beat her. She stood between these two creatures, large, weighty, guilty, red from head to foot, and accepted the blows, ignorant of any defense. All she did was blink her eyes, sweat and snuffle, an exhausted horse.

"Hit her? You might as well hit the wall," her mother screeched and delivered a stronger smack.

"Amen!" Zavel chimed in, gouging her so fiercely with the tip of his shoe that she groaned and had to retreat a step.

This particular blow Brayne couldn't forget. She became oddly terrified of her father's dirty shoes. Nor could she think of him any longer as "Father"—"Father," for example, "is sleeping," or "Father is awake." Now it was: "Zavel is awake," "Zavel sleeps," "Zavel quarrels." The locked cupboard whispered to her, the newly roasted poppyseed entranced her nose, but Zavel's shoes, Zavel's shoes .

On Saturday, Brayne, wearing a clean blouse, would sit at the window and watch the world go by. Her father and mother slept, and she alone was awake, sitting with her breasts pressed against the window, her hands more glaringly red than ever against the white blouse. Ducks waddled toward their bath. Soft white clouds swam slowly, Sabbath-like, soul-troubling, across the blue sky. A bird flew by, landing in the swamp on the other side of the river, while she sat and dully watched it all, like a deaf man in the midst of a conversation. Her greasy green eyes would light up only when they saw a gang of boys strolling with girls. She might see Velvel the shoemaker with his bride, or broadshouldered Yankel the plasterer with his girl Dvoshe. Brayne's thick neck stretched, her red forehead pushed against the warm pane, her little green eyes blazed. If she noticed a boy grasping a girl's arm or waist, she broke into quiet, choked laughter. Inside of her something tugged and ached, and she laughed. Odd laughter—a queer noise from her chest and a stifled giggle—laughter like a hen's cries. Her mouth never opened to free the laughter, but it escaped through her nose as her sides and broad back and breasts tossed and leaped. How could such a small, smothered sound come from a great healthy cow like Brayne?

"Hneh, hneh, hn"

"Girl!" Her mother was torn from her light sleep. "Girl!"

Brayne knew what her mother's warning meant. Zavel and his shoe might both awaken. But she couldn't control her laughter; something
 tickled and gnawed at her. Boys, and boys with girls, many betrothed couples, strolled down the street, and her laughter grew and grew. She was dying to laugh, to laugh forever. She knew Zavel had already dashed from his bed and was roaring right at her. She knew the heavy shoe was beating her in her new blouse. It hurt, it soiled the white blouse, but the laughter kept ripping her chest. Stronger and stronger, forcing the nostrils to shiver and itch.

"Hn, hneh, hn"

Sleeping was uncomfortable, hot, after such a Saturday. Brayne usually slept like a stone, but on those nights she was restless. Zavel snored, her mother groaned, and the old furniture snapped in the darkness. The bed creaked under her heavy body as she turned. Somehow that creak made the gnawing at her heart start all over again, and she wanted to laugh. She tried to lie quietly, but it was hot, very hot, and she listened for the sound of the creaking bed, that crack of the mattress in the dark.

Benny Lip was known about town as a thief and a basket snatcher. Two teeth protruded through his harelip. Thin, hungry, nineteen or twenty years old, he had a nervy face and squint eyes with a queer white gleam. It was the gleam shared by professional thieves and spies. One fine day he showed up in town, and on the same day people began to frown at him sideways and to bar their doors against him. When he was hungry he dragged through the streets, crying in a crazily piercing voice, "Ahoo, ahoo, ahoo." This was the sound of Benny's wrath, and woe to any irritable woman who bade him be silent. Then he would park himself in front of her window and grate for hours on end, out of spite, and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

Where did Benny live? Where did he sleep? Where did he eat? Sometimes a piece of scrapiron was visible under his jacket, sometimes an old broken candlestick, or even a bun. If anyone happened to stare at Benny chewing his bun, he rasped, "Ahoo, ahoo," and walked away.

Sometimes Benny came to Zavel's to buy a penny's worth of poppyseed, and as he dashed in he would pinch Brayne's arm and retreat to a corner. Brayne fell apart—fluttered and blinked and kneaded as if she were being whipped.

Zavel, scratching, lay on the sofa. "Well, bum?" he asked.

"Poppyseed, poppyseed!" Benny danced, his shoulders jerking, while Zavel crawled reluctantly off his sofa and slowly unlocked the cupboard with rusted old keys. The dull knife with which he hacked at the black roll of poppyseed enraged him every time it slipped.

"How much do you want?"

"A few cents' worth." Benny sidled toward the cupboard.

"Get away from here, you!" Suspiciously Zavel protected the roll. "I can do without your help."

"Just look at the big fuss!" But Benny moved back.

As Zavel weighed out the poppyseed he called to Benny, "Davai dengi—let's see the cash." Whenever Zavel was really serious, really firm, he spoke Russian.

"Just look at all the fuss," Benny answered and handed Zavel the money. Only then did he get the poppyseed.

Standing, Benny ate it—he chewed and sucked with gusto. His shoulders, his nose, his white eyes—all moved and rolled as he bit at the black poppyseed, the healthy white teeth sticking out of his harelip. Zavel peered from under his shaggy brows as if he were at a sideshow. Brayne burned, kneading the dough or scraping the mixing trough as wildly as if her life depended on it.

"Give me another piece, Zavel. Tomorrow I'll pay you back, sure as I'm a Jew!"

Zavel didn't even bother to answer.

"Just look at all the fuss!" Benny said brazenly, and then turned to stare at Brayne. "Hey, Zavel, why don't you marry off the Girl? Give her to me for a wife—what about it?"

"Listen to him!" Zavel answered calmly and hunted for a stick. "Get out of here, you bag of bones!"

Benny sprang for the door, pinching Brayne again as he passed. He postured in the doorway, taunting Zavel with a throaty wheedle, "You'd like a brandy, eh? Dying for just a little one? Ahoo, ahoo!" And he ran away.

Zavel poured out his anger on the Girl: he beat her with his shoe, with the stick, and Brayne perspired. A few days later Benny would dash in again and the show would be repeated.

Once, when Zavel was returning from evening services where he had observed the anniversary of his father's death, he met Benny Lip in his hallway. Asne, of course, was at the market, and Brayne was home alone. Benny seemed flustered and tried to edge out into the street, but Zavel grabbed his collar. "Stand still!" "Just look at all the fuss," Benny began in his normal fashion, but stopped and changed tactics. "Believe me, as I'm a Jew, Zavel, I've taken nothing."

Zavel clutched at Benny's collar with one hand while with the other he searched him carefully. The search over, Zavel shoved him away. "Well, you bag of bones, drag yourself out of here."

Benny needed no urging. Zavel watched from the hallway, waiting for Benny to begin jeering at him, to start his growl and his song of ahoo, ahoo. But Benny kept on running, and his frightened face looked back only once. Zavel wondered as he entered the house.

Zavel saw the Girl sitting near the trough, her arms half drowned in the dough, her hair wild, her cheeks horribly red. She sat and laughed quietly to herself, laughed like a hen clucking.

Zavel begrudged her the chair. He yelled hoarsely, "See how she bus about! A fine way to knead! You're too sick to stand up?"

Still not satisfied, Zavel jabbed her in the side.

Brayne stood up and began kneading.

"What did that thief do here?"

Brayne laughed silently.

Zavel snatched off his shoe and began angrily to pound at her. "Girl, what did he do? What did he do here?"

Suddenly the most astonishing thing happened. Instead of humbly receiving the blows, Brayne ran about the room, her red dough-covered fists clenched, her teeth bared, and roared like an animal, "Oooo, oo!"

Zavel paled. For the first time he recognized in Brayne a creature stronger than himself. He hurriedly put on his shoe; his hands trembled and his voice trembled. "Go on, get along with the kneading. Don't you hear me? The ashes in the oven are waiting. What will become of you, damn you!"

No one knew quite how it happened, but after that incident relations among the father, mother, and the Girl changed. Zavel no longer threatened with his shoe—he cursed like a fishwife instead. After stuffing Brayne with all the oaths he could invent, he would stop, meditate for a while. Then he would spit in anger at himself and stretch out on the sofa.

Benny Lip never came there again. When he saw Zavel on the street he turned aside.

None of this sat well with Zavel. He began to suspect the Girl, but he was afraid to tell Asne. She might torture him, accuse him of not having watched carefully enough, and then she wouldn't give him any more money for liquor. So he hid his lonely doubts and waited, waited. He could control himself until he glanced at the reddened nape above the broad shoulders, shaking as they kneaded, and then he would grind his teeth and curse to himself, "Damn you, what's going to become of you? Damn you!"

Once he forgot the new order and began to beat her with his shoe. Brayne screamed crazily, shoved her kneading away, overturning the bench and the trough and the dough. She pushed her belly against the wall and howled like a maddened beast.

Zavel picked up the dough. He did not tell Asne.

The Girl became different. As soon as she saw her power over her parents she grew lazy, ate a lot, didn't knead or wash up or fire the oven as quickly as she had done before. She tired easily, and, even though she lay down to rest, blue patches appeared under her eyes, and the eyes themselves changed—they were no longer dreamy, no longer stupefied. In the middle of her work she would start wandering about the room, her sleeves still rolled, secretly snickering her wild henlike laughter. Once the laughter rose to a horrible pitch when she looked out the window. Her white horse teeth bit at the reddened hands: Benny Lip had passed. She rarely slept at night now, but tossed from side to side, choking with laughter.

Asne, listening in the dark, would whine to Zavel, "Do you hear? The Girl has given up sleeping."

"It's nothing," Zavel answered.

"Since you've started pampering her you ignore everything she does."

"To hell with her!" Zavel waved the problem aside and snored to convince Asne that he was unconcernedly asleep.

Zavel drank heavily. Brayne grew lazier and lazier. Asne stood all day in the market place, grumbled and swore when she came home, and, afraid to pick on the Girl, assaulted Zavel with her stored-up rage.

Dead drunk one night after his return from the tavern, Zavel hungered for his sofa. But before he could get through the hallway and collapse he heard his wife's voice. In the kitchen he found Brayne squatting on the floor and Asne standing over her, screaming and screeching.

"Carry that sack of flour out to the storeroom! Do you hear me?"

"Scared," the Girl stammered, crossing her hands over her heart.

"Carry it out right now—or you'll be carried out feet first!"

"Scared."

"And you old drunk, you!" Asne whirled upon Zavel. "Don't you see how she's tormenting me? Why don't you say something, you drunk? Say something, sot!"

Zavel automatically ripped off his shoe.

"Scared, scared, scared," droned the Girl and hugged her knees.

Zavel landed a blow.

Through the fog of brandy and noise Zavel saw Brayne suddenly lurch to her feet. Asne was already flat on her back, and a powerful hand clutched his windpipe, throttling him. The whole world shimmered. Only the Girl's voice existed, choked, frightful, bestial. "Ah. Zavel, ahah, Zavel."

Asne was barely able to save him from the Girl's hands.

All night Zavel lay sleepless, though he was drugged with drink. He feared the Girl might decide to finish strangling him. When he did doze off, at dawn, he was awakened by his wife's desperate cries.

"Help! Help! She's pregnant—God help her!"

"Amen." Zavel answered in his old accustomed manner, sleepily opening his eyes and sitting up in bed.

Asne, half-naked, wailed over him, tearing her hair with skinny, shivering fingers. "She's pregnant, she's pregnant, oh, God help her!"

"Amen," Zavel again supplied, bowing his head.

Asne was struck by his calm. Why, he sat quietly, as if nothing at all were happening! He had not even looked startled! She stood at the bedside, frozen, suddenly, despairingly, silent.

Her fixed silence muddled Zavel. Not knowing what to say, he began to stutter, "Dear madam, eh, blessings on you . . . eh, slip me a few cents . . . for a benediction . .