"Old people," said I, "I have brought you news from your son
Samuel." As soon as father heard me speak Yiddish, he ran to the
window, rubbed his hands against the moist pane, by way of washing
them, and shook hands with me.
"Peace be with you, young man," said he. Mother left her corner and
stood up before me. Father began fumbling for his glasses, and
asked me: "News from my son, you say? Where did you see him last?"
"And when did you see him?" asked mother, shivering.
I mentioned some imaginary place and date.
"How does he feel? Was he in the war? Is he well? Does he expect
to come home?"
Many such questions followed one another in quick succession.
Meanwhile father took me aside, and whispered into my ear: "How
about . . . . how about religion?" Out of sheer spitefulness I
wanted to worry the poor old folks a little; may the Lord not
consider it a sin on my part.
I said: "Had Rabbi Simhah the Shohet been in his place, he surely
would have withstood all temptations!" . . . .
"What, converted?!"
I kept silent, and the old people took it as a sign of affirmation.
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