"There is always an English translation on the opposite page," I showed her. "You will be able to read that. Perhaps it will help you."
"Perhaps," she said after me, her thin voice quavering.
"Read it all. You will come at any rate to a better understanding of your fellow Jews."
Her head went down, as if in shame of some unpleasant reminiscence. "Perhaps—I will try, anyhow—and perhaps—"
"Aunt Selina," I told her hastily, "I am coming home to live with you at the end of this college year. We shall begin all over again."
Then her tears began afresh. "I did not dare ask it—but oh, if you could only know how I have wanted it—and for how long! I would have prayed for it—yes, really, prayed for it—if I had only had someone to pray to!"
And then, as if suddenly remembering, she hugged the shabby leather book to her breast, and smiled.
But, before she left, I opened it up to show her why I prized this particular copy. For, on the yellowed flyleaf in old ink, was the name, "Isidore Levi." And below it, newly written, these words:
"To a Jew who could not stand aside."
He had sent it to me immediately after he had learned of that last incident at college. And he did not need to explain where I had seen this prayer book last.