His small pig eyes actually erupted with tears. Truly, if a type like this could be reduced to weeping in front of men whom only last week he'd still been calling zhydovska morda (derogatory description of a Jew, occasionally translated as ‘Jewface,’ except morda refers to the visage of an animal), the days of the Messiah were at hand.
Haman left, and our little revolutionary cell convened a meeting. All night long we heatedly disputed whether or not to call off our strike.
I argued that, if the man had repented sincerely, he deserved at least one more chance. After all, we had already demonstrated our revolutionary power. Also, if we overthrew Haman completely, what guarantee did we have that our next commander wouldn't be even worse? But there were others who felt that his tears were not sincere, and that we'd be fools to pass up this opportunity to rid ourselves of the bastard once and for all.
In the end, the meeting dissolved without a clear-cut decision one way or the other.
Thus, back at the firing range next morning, some of us carefully continued to miss our targets, while others ran up a very decent score.
The outcome was still no great triumph for Haman. He was threatened with instant demotion if such a "mutiny" should ever again occur among his men. But he kept his command, and I regret to tell you that his heartbreaking conversion lasted only as long as yesterday's snow.
However, if Haman remained as much of a swine as ever, our little exercise did have one effect. From that day on, our commander's malevolence was strictly impartial. And what Jew in Fonya's army could have asked for more than that?