He shook his head.
A strange expression stole over her face. Her eyes contracted, there was a deep dent between her eyebrows, and she stared at him as if sudden fear possessed her.
“So it is not true,” she muttered in a husky voice, “that you are a Jew.”
Albert threw his head back and laughed.
“Too much of a Jew, Miriam—too much of one to be left in peace.” The sunny smile now vanished from his eyes, the deep corners of his mouth drooped and twitched, the wing of melancholy brushed his flushed cheeks. “Why do you doubt it?” He again made an attempt at smiling.
“You couldn’t be a Jew without knowing that tomorrow is a Jewish holiday!”
He looked puzzled at her. He did not observe Jewish holidays.
However, she soon yielded and promised to come.
The next day they were seated in their secluded place, Albert reciting a song he had written the night before. He told her that if he had not met her the song would not have been written.
There were tears in his eyes; he uttered the last verse in a whisper almost, and then silence. The day was hot, without the slightest breeze; nothing stirred, not even the drooping feather-like boughs of the willow overhead.