On the umpteenth morning of his service, Corporal Shleiml Cantor is woken for duty for by an irritating fly that rests on the tip of his nose, and realises that he is hungry.
The previous evening was something special. There was one last bottle of yash left, a sleeve of fine sausage (kosher of course), half a loaf of bread, three crackers and an apple. Cantor worked out that if he ate half of that he would be full, which is indeed what transpired. And yet he could not stop thinking about the half-meal that remained . . .
Now that the fly is shooed away and the food crate is open, he is about to invite Olga – “Shall we eat?” – but there is no food left. Cantor looks over at his companion, embarrassed. He has been caught off guard. She stares back at him, her arms folded and her mouth askew. It’s bad enough that he had to replace Oleg in such a forlorn corner of the camp, not to mention the unbearable heat he has to endure, but are the guard and his companion expected to live on fresh air alone? What good is a sentry if his body is trembling with weakness? If Cantor is to regain his strength, he must have something to eat as soon as possible. Without stopping to consider his duty, the cantor rises, stretches his limbs and leaves his post, pulling Olga along with him. Unaccustomed to movement, she falls apart. But Cantor is not one to turn his back on disadvantage or disability. He takes his beloved in his arms like a bridegroom and sets off for the camp to replenish his supplies.
Alas, neither Cantor’s sense of direction nor his faculty of reasoning is his forte. He remembers that, when he first came to Oleg’s guard post, he walked in the direction of the sun. Therefore, he surmises, he should walk in the sun’s direction in order to return, and he cheerfully sets off in the wrong direction. What will the soldiers say when they see him again, after all this time? What will they say when they see that he does not return alone, but with a companion?
After half a day’s march “towards camp”, Cantor arrives at a small shack that might be described as a bar. The corporal enters the place holding Olga, and immediately notices a certain attitude of deference towards him. The men would never dare abuse him to their heart’s content, he thinks, because now he is wearing the uniform of the Czar’s army. He sits Olga in a chair next to him, slaps the table and calls out, “Can’t a corporal and a lady get a drink around here?”
The roars of laughter that follow are heard all the way to Nesvizh, perhaps even as far as Baranavichy, if one has the sharp hearing of an owl. But ordinary passers-by have no need of superhuman senses to realise that something is up at the local bar and they flock to enjoy the show of an ass of a Jew with a clipped beard and shorn sidelocks posing as a soldier, married to a wooden plank, issuing orders to everyone around him.
Needless to say, they sit down with him, listen to his stories and let him run up a heavy debt in a card game he was sure he could win. Once he realises that his uniform will not extract him from this one, he offers to repay his debt by singing “Adon Olam”, or by ceasing to sing it. His debtors, however, prefer to give him a thorough beating.
What is Shleiml left with? No food, no drink, and very few teeth. He is saved only by the passage of time, for the simple reason that at some point the muzhiks drift away to their homes and let him be. Shleiml Cantor leaves the bar with a hardly a spot on his body unbruised, wearing neither uniform nor insignia, but with no hard feelings either. Sometimes you’re up and sometimes you’re down, and right now he’s down. So what? At least he has Olga, even if she is pretty battered and bruised herself.
At dawn, a rickety wagon carrying potatoes drives past him. The cantor gathers Olga in his arms, mounts the wagon and the couple reaches the nearby town not long after. Those who are quick to conclude that good souls are an extinct species should feel ashamed, heretics that they are. To wit, as they approach Baranavichy the wagon’s driver yells at Cantor, “Now get out, you wretch!” and throws a quarter of a loaf of bread after him. Shleiml thanks the farmer for his free ride, and marches on towards Baranavichy. But alas, Baranavichy is no place to be if you are the local cantor’s rival, let alone if you are one of four murder suspects in a town swarming with secret agents, all on high alert for your arrival.
Naively enough, Cantor does not consider himself to be linked to the murders in question. More fearful of his professional nemesis than the law, he avoids the synagogue and enters a local tavern on the main street in the hope of an encounter with Lady Luck. This time, he isn’t punched. Instead, he is surprised to encounter eyes registering his resemblance to the facial composite on the “wanted” notices pasted all over town. Before an hour goes by, he is handcuffed and on his way to meet Inspector Novak in Motal, his hands still clasping two broken planks and a sheet of tarpaulin.