“How you took me in with your hungry look!” There was more of sorrow than scorn in her voice. “Even teaching your child to lie—and your husband a rabbi!—a religious man—too holy to work! What would be left for deserving cases if we allowed such as you to defraud legitimate charity?”
With bowed head, Reb Ravinsky closed the door after the departing visitor. The upbraidings of the woman were like a whip-lash on his naked flesh. His heart ached for his helpless family. Darkness suffocated him.
“My hungry little lamb,” wailed his wife, clinging to Rachel. “Where now can we turn for bread?”
Compassionate hands reached out in prayer over the grief-stricken mother and child. Reb Ravinsky stood again as he did before his flight to America, facing his sorrowing people. His wife’s wailing for their lost store of bread brought back to him the bereaved survivors of the pogrom—the pogrom that snatched away their sons and daughters. Afire with the faith of his race, he chanted the age-old consolation: “The Lord giveth; the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.”
Printed by Cassell & Company, Limited, La Belle Sauvage, London E.C.4.
Transcriber’s Notes
A few minor punctuation errors/omissions were silently corrected.
[Page 7]: “or consisten” changed to “or consistent”
[Page 195]: “Delancy Street” changed to “Delancey Street”