§ 7
“It’s me—Hanneh Breineh!”
A loud thumping at the door and a shrill chatter of voices broke in upon Berel’s meditations.
“Me—Moisheh!”
“Come in!” he cried, welcoming this human inbreak after his long vigil.
“Here we got him!” Berel was smothered in Hanneh Breineh’s gushing embrace. “Where did you run away that time, you crazy? Don’t you yet know my bitter heart? I never mean nothing when I curse.”
“For months it dried out our eyes from our heads looking for you,” gulped Moisheh, tearing him from Hanneh’s greedy arms.
Berel fell on his brother’s neck, weeping out the whole rush and tide of his new-born humility.
“Mine own brother, with the old shine from his eyes!”
Moisheh held Berel off, then crushed him in another long hug. Hanneh Breineh, with ostentatious importance, held up her capacious market basket and drew forth a greasy bundle.
“Let’s make from it a holiday, for good luck. It’s only a bargain, this apple strudel,” she said apologetically, breaking it in pieces and giving one to each.
Berel’s tears rang out in laughter.
“My own hearts—my own people!”
“Mazeltuf! Good luck!” chanted Hanneh Breineh, sipping hungrily the last drops of luscious juice that oozed from the apple strudel.
Raising his piece on high, Moisheh chimed in:
“Good luck and the new life!”