“What caused the house to go down so?” I inquired, glancing around the well-swept hall and stairs.
“Jews,” she replied, indicating the flat above her own. “I done let the janitor know what I think of her, takin’ dirty Jews in the house with decent Christians.”
Because of Eleanor I have a soft spot in my heart for Jews. Eleanor was my desk-mate during my first two years in the high school. She was a few years older than I, indeed I looked upon her as quite a young lady; but I thought then, and I never have changed my mind, that she was one of the loveliest and most beautiful girls I have ever known. No one could object to living in the house with Eleanor.
Once when living in a New York hotel I had seen three persons, unmistakably gentle people, turned away—told there were no rooms. After they left, the room-clerk smirkingly remarked on the gall of “such people,” thinking they’d slip in, when they knew that hotel never took Jews. The Sea Foam, I was told by the head waiter, would let every room stand empty before taking in Jews.
Recalling all this I determined to see the Jew whose coming had caused this tenement-house to deteriorate so hopelessly that a dirty-faced Irishwoman should lose heart and ambition. Though the janitor had told me that the dog on the third floor had a license, I climbed the stairs.
The man who opened the door might have stepped from the pages of an old illustrated Bible. He was small, old, and slightly bent. He had a long gray beard, wore a black skull-cap, and heavy horn-rimmed spectacles rested on the bridge of his long hooked nose. The dressing-gown which he wore over his coat had a purple lining.
On learning my business he invited me in—oh, I must come in and see their dog, their grandson’s dog. The flat contained three rooms, an alcove, and a tiny hall. In the front room, at the end of the tiny hall, I found the old man’s mate, and like him she might have stepped fresh from the pages of an ancient Bible.
She also wore her dressing-gown, more gaudily colored than her husband’s, over her clothes. It was a chilly day, and unlike the Irishwoman, who had a coal-fire roaring in her stove, they had no heat excepting the sun shining in at their two front windows.
On a table at the old woman’s elbow sat a glass decanter about half full of purple wine, two wine-glasses, and a plate of unusual-appearing small cakes. Knowing it to be a Jewish holiday I fancied that I had interrupted some religious rite, and was for beating a hasty retreat. No, no, I must stay.
It was for their grandson. A stranger coming into their home so opportunely and joining them would insure a blessing on their house. Surely I wouldn’t refuse to join them in drinking to the health of their grandson, an American soldier somewhere in France.