You knew your father hated them all, but you saw him smile and bend as he filled those greedy palms.

You did the same, in your petty way, when you saw Vanka coming toward you on a lonely street, and you held out to him the core of the apple you had been chewing, and forced your unwilling lips into a smile.

It hurt, that false smile; it made you feel black inside.
In your father's parlor hung a large colored portrait of Alexander III.

The Czar was a cruel tyrant,--oh, it was whispered when doors were locked and shutters tightly barred, at night,--he was a Titus, a Haman, a sworn foe of all Jews,--and yet his portrait was seen in a place of honor in your father's house.

You knew why.