I sensed rather than grasped the perfidy in this speech. Still, the reference to being wet behind the ears and above all the image of Puss in Boots stuck in my mind, festered. I am certain it was Stiassny’s allusion to my ludicrous bedizenment that aroused me.
One bright day, wearing my getup, plus the doddering rubber boots, with the fox major’s cap on my head, I strolled from the safe preserve of the tower and the house, the garden and the courtyard, through the gates, and out into the village. I knew I would at least cause a stir; and though I did not exactly reckon with open hostilities, I was ready for them. Of course, I had not dared to spirit one of Uncle Hubi’s sabers off the wall and buckle it on, even though this weapon really belonged to the fraternity arms. But I had my dachshund Max along, my slingshot, and a good handful of lead pellets in my pocket. As expected, after the first dozen paces, I was encircled by a host of curious Jewish children, which increased into a larger and larger, more and more tumultuous swarm as more children came running.
I walked on, my head high, and started up the road to the marketplace. I did not have to show my scorn of the urchins, who danced around me, howling gaily; I ignored them just as when I sat in the coach, next to Uncle Hubi or Aunt Sophie or both of them, and the urchins scattered before the horses’ hooves, and certainly when they fled from the Daimler and then ran around it in the yellow cloud of dust, trying to cling to the trunks strapped on in back.
In front of Dr. Goldmann’s bizarrely turreted and merloned villa, someone blocked my path. He was the same age as I, if a bit smaller and thinner; while better dressed and evidently better bred than the others, he was as unmistakably Jewish. His ruddy, downy face, enfurred by wiry copper curls, was spotted with freckles. He looked like a young ram staring closely into a blazing fire. (“The sun,” Stiassny said later, “it is the sun that the children of the Tribe of Levi contemplate!”) But even more unforgettable than the stamp of this face, the look of a downright smug self-assurance lodged in my mind.
“What is it? Purim?” he asked, blinking when I stopped short in front of him in order — as I imagined — to stare him down and out of my way. I knew that Purim was some kind of Jewish Mardi Gras, with colorful masks and things. I found his question insolent but considered it beneath my corps dignity to reply. Totally unabashed, he raised his hand and touched the foxtail around my cap: “What are you? A Hasidic rabbi?”
Now I had to show him who I was: I struck his hand away. And as though the others were only waiting for a signal, they promptly attacked me on all sides. In a flash, my lovely cap was torn from my head, soon shredded to rags in a turmoil of lifted hands and a general howl of triumph. I could feel the sleeves of my mining jacket separate from the seams beneath the epaulets; a few blows struck me, but I hit back sharply and nastily, taking a more careful and ruthless aim than the chaotic and basically playful assault should have aroused. What made me feel so wretched was the ignominious failure of my dachshund Max. In lieu of defending me, of furiously snapping out around me like a Molossian dog, he withdrew behind me with a whine, and a good portion of the kicks and punches that were meant for me struck him. But to my utmost surprise, the red-headed boy threw himself protectively over the dog, even though my first punch had smashed into the middle of his face. “C’mon, you thugs!” he yelled in a mixture of German and Yiddish. “The dog didn’ do nothin’ to you!”