And throwing a prayer-book to the floor he trampled it under foot, and rushed out into the street.
For many years there worked in one of the sweatshops on the East Side a shrivelled little man, with keen blue eyes, who was always laughing. From sunrise until midnight he toiled, sometimes humming an old melody, but always with a smile upon his lips. The other workers laughed and chatted merrily in the winter time, and became grave and silent in the summer, but rarely did they pay attention to the old man who seemed always happy. Strangers that visited the place were invariably attracted by the cheerful aspect of the man, but when they spoke to him he would smile and answer:
“I must earn money to send my wife to the sea air!”
And if they asked, “Who is this man?” they would be told in a whisper of awe:
“He has no fear of God!”
And then a significant shake of the head.
The heat of summer is here again. Shatzkin has been dead a long time, and the story is almost forgotten. But in the Ghetto each day his cry is repeated, and through the heat and the foul air there arises from a thousand hearts the tearless murmur:
“Great is my affliction, O God of Israel, but Thou knowest best!”