By the time I fully understood that I was a prisoner, the shackles had grown familiar to my flesh.
The first time Vanka threw mud at me, I ran home and complained to my mother, who brushed off my dress and said, quite resignedly, "How can I help you, my poor child?
Vanka is a Gentile.

The Gentiles do as they like with us Jews." The next time Vanka abused me, I did not cry, but ran for shelter, saying to myself, "Vanka is a Gentile." The third time, when Vanka spat on me, I wiped my face and thought nothing at all.

I accepted ill-usage from the Gentiles as one accepts the weather.

The world was made in a certain way, and I had to live in it.
Not quite all the Gentiles were like Vanka.

Next door to us lived a Gentile family which was very friendly.