“And here is my teacherin!” Moisheh’s grin was that of a small boy displaying his most prized possession.
Berel, the baby, with the first down of young manhood still soft on his cheeks, shyly enveloped my hand in his long, sensitive fingers. “How nice for you to come—a teacherin—an Amerikanerin!”
“Well—are we going?” came imperiously from the doctor.
“Yeh—yeh!” answered Moisheh. “I’m so out of my head from joy, my feet don’t work.” And, gathering the few remaining lighter packages together, we threaded our way through the crowded streets—the two newly arrived brothers walking silently together.
“Has Moisheh changed much?” I asked the doctor as I watched the big man help his mother tenderly across the car tracks.
“The same Moisheh,” he said, with an amused, slightly superior air.
I looked at Berel to see if he was of the same cloth as the doctor, but he was lost in dreamy contemplation of the towering sky-scrapers.
“Like granite mountains—the tower of Babel,” Berel mused aloud.
“How do they ever walk up to the top?” asked the bewildered old mother.
“Walk!” cried Moisheh, overjoyed at the chance to hand out information. “There are elevators in America. You push a button and up you fly like on wings.”