We’re all such friends that it stinks to high heaven: the Russians hate the Lithuanians, the Lithuanians the Poles, and everyone despises the black Muslims at the market who sell pears, melons, and pomegranates out of season; the Russians hate the Jews who haven’t left yet too, but, most of all, everyone to a man hates the Russians, but I myself don’t know who to hate; I’m a mongrel, so one part of me should hate the others: the Polish part the Russian, and the Lithuanian the Polish, but I don’t know how to divide it up so accurately, I don’t even know what I am—a tuteiša, that’s all, even
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