He spoke rather tenderly, almost affectionately, of “his Jews”.
“You might follow in the footsteps of Casimir the Great and take a Jewish Esther for your wife,” jested Albert.
“The Jewish Esther of Gnesen would spurn a Casimir the Great,” laughed the Count. “I have carried on flirtations with many a Jewish innkeeper’s daughter but Miriam is adamant.”
“Who is Miriam?”
“The rabbi’s daughter. She is the prettiest and sweetest girl I have ever laid my eyes on.”
After a space he added, “By the way, I always pay my respects to the rabbi when I come here in the summer and I should like you to meet him. We have quite a time in understanding each other. He speaks almost no Polish and my German is beyond him, so Miriam often acts as our interpreter.”
A few days later the count’s carriage stopped before a dilapidated little house near the synagogue. Albert was with the count and his heart beat tumultuously as he recognized the high wooden porch. They were soon knocking at the door.
People in Gnesen did not usually knock on people’s doors. They just opened them and walked in.
They knocked again and again without response until the beadle, who happened to pass by, saw the dignitary at the rabbi’s door and hurried to the rear of the house, pushed the door open unceremoniously, and burst out, “Miriam, der Graf!”
Miriam was bent over a copper pot which she was polishing.