It’s the petty field surgeon who lies buried by the wall.
The Pious Rabbi
(In passing. His praying shawl hangs but loosely over his left shoulder.) They have dug up my whole grave.... They have dug away my right arm. Woe, how shall I now put on my praying shawl? How shall I appear before God? (To a group.) Will not some one help me to put on my praying shawl?
(They surround and help him. They show signs of deep feeling at the sight of the missing arm. Murmurs of astonishment and compassion.)
Many
Woe ... woe ... woe....
Others
Money ... money ... money....
The Rabbi
Now will I go and appear before God.... Now I will ask him.... (He vanishes through the gate.)