Lamed Shapiro, "The Kiss" in The Jewish Government and Other Stories, Curt Leviant, ed. and trans. (New York: Twayne), pp. 169-72.

Reb Shakhne's hands and feet shook and an unbearably bitter taste flooded his mouth. He sat on a chair, listening to the wild noises coming from the street: whistling and the clatter of broken window panes. He imagined that all this banging, shrieking and ringing was taking place inside his head.

The pogrom had begun so suddenly that he hadn't even had time to shut his shop, but immediately ran home. He found no one there. Sarah and the children had apparently hidden somewhere, abandoning the house with its bit of silver and with the money. He himself had not thought of hiding; he hadn't thought of a thing at all. He just listened to the cries of help from the street and felt the bitterness in his mouth.

At times, the noise of the pogrom drew closer; at times, farther away, like a fire in the neighborhood. Then all at once, it encompassed the house on all four sides. The windows rang. Several stones flew into the dining room, and suddenly peasants—mainly young ones with red, drunken faces—began streaming into the room through windows and doors, carrying sticks and knives. Reb Shakhne sensed that he should do something. He lifted himself up with great difficulty and, as the pogromists looked on, began to crawl under the sofa. The gang began to laugh.

"What a fool," said one, catching him by the leg. "Hey, you, get up!"

 Reb Shakhne suddenly became clear-headed and began bawling like a baby.

"I have children," he pleaded. "I'll show you myself where the money and silver are, where everything is. Just don't kill me. Why should you kill me? I have a wife and children."

None of this helped. They took everything and began beating him furiously—in the teeth, ribs, and stomach. He cried and pleaded, but they continued beating him. Then he recognized one of the peasant youths and turned to him for mercy.

"Vasilenko, you know me. Your father worked in our house. Didn't I pay him? He earned good wages . . . Vasilenko . . . Vasilenko. Help! Help!"

A blow beneath the ribs cut short his plea. Two youths sat on him and began pressing his abdomen with their knees. Vasilenko, a short thin gray-eyed lad with a crooked face, smiled proudly and said, "So what? Of course you paid. What else? Dad worked, so you paid him. I'd like to have seen you not pay him."

Nevertheless, it pleased him that Reb Shakhne had turned to him for help, and he said to the rest of the group, "All right, fellows, that's enough. Let the corpse live. Can't you see? He's hardly breathing anyway."

They gradually tore themselves away from their victim and left the house, smashing everything that they hadn't previously broken.

"Well, Shakhne, you've got me to thank that you've been left alive," Vasilenko told Reb Shakhne, who stood before him with lowered head and a wounded face, breathing with difficulty. "If it weren't for me, the boys wouldn't have wasted much time over you."

He wanted to leave, but had a sudden idea.

"Here," he said, stretching out his hand to Reb Shakhne, "kiss it."

Reb Shakhne raised his bloodshot eyes and gave him a puzzled look. He did not understand.

Vasilenko's face clouded.

"What's up, didn't you hear me? I told you to kiss."

Two of the peasant youths had remained in the doorway, curious to see what was happening. Reb Shakhne looked silently at Vasilenko, and the latter turned purple.

"You damned Yid puss," the peasant shouted. He gritted his teeth and slapped Reb Shakhne's face with the full might of his arm. "You still hesitating? Hey, fellows, come here." The two youths approached.

"Come, let's start working on him. If he's such a high and mighty nobleman, he'll have to kiss my foot. If not—"

He sat on a chair. The peasant lads grabbed Reb Shakhne and threw him to Vasilenko's feet.

"Pull 'em off," Vasilenko ordered, kicking him in the teeth with his boots.

Reb Shakhne slowly pulled the boot off the youth's foot.

"Kiss."

Facing each other were a red, filthy foot with the pungent odor of sweat, and a beaten face with a long, respectable black beard. Purely by chance, the gang had not focused on the beard, though it was somewhat frayed in spots. Nevertheless, the full glory of an adult's beard had remained on his face. Looking down on him was Vasilenko's green, crooked face with its grey eyes.

"Kiss, I tell you."

And another blow in the teeth accompanied the command.

For a moment everyone in the room was mute and immovable. Then Reb Shakhne bent his head and Vasilenko emitted a shrill, horrible shriek. All of Vasilenko's toes and a good part of his foot had disappeared into Reb Shakhne's mouth, and two rows of teeth deeply penetrated the filthy, sweaty flesh.
 What ensued was as bizarre and oppressive as a nightmare. The two peasants kicked Reb Shakhne's ribs furiously; each blow resounded hollowly, like an empty barrel. They tugged at his beard, strand by strand, dug their fingers into his eyes and plucked them out, and sought out his most sensitive parts and tore them out. Reb Shakhne trembled and burned, writhed and twisted, and the two rows of teeth pressed closer convulsively, entering deeper into the foot, until cracking sounds were heard—teeth, bones, or both at once. Vasilenko did not cease screaming, wildly, insanely, like a stuck pig.

The two peasants were oblivious to the passing of time, and regained their awareness when they noticed that Reb Shakhne's body no longer quivered. Looking at his face, both shivered from tip to toe.

The torn eyes dangled from the bloody holes—huge, round and sticky. No face remained. His beard was a series of moist bloody locks, and the dead teeth around the foot were clenched like a slain wolf's. Vasilenko was still thrashing about, no longer on the chair, but on the floor. His body writhed like a snake, and hoarse, drawn-out sounds came from his throat. His gray eyes were wide open, dull and glassy. He had apparently lost his reason.

With a frightened "God save us!", the two youths ran from the house.

The raging pogrom mob stormed outside, but among the variety of sounds, no one heard the screams of the still-living man who was slowly expiring between the dead man's teeth.