They reached the cemetery. Among the trees were white crosses, stones, and tombs. The city of the dead in the shade of green leaves slept in silent dignity. A number of persons were strolling among the crosses; among the branches a bird from time to time sang half sadly, half charmingly. The figure of the cemetery guard pushed past at intervals.
Helena soon found Potkanski's grave. It was a large mound surrounded by an iron railing; at the foot of the mound was a small grass-covered hillock. Under these lay Potkanski with Helena's child. A number of pots with flowers adorned the graves, at the sides grew reseda; in general, the grave kept neatly and even with ornament indicated a careful hand.
Yosef called the guard to open the railing. Helena knelt there with prayer on her lips and tears in her eyes.
"Who keeps this grave?" asked Yosef of the guard.
"This lady came; a gentleman with long hair came also, but now he comes no longer. He always paid for the flowers, and he also gave command to erect the iron grating."
"That gentleman is here now—last year they buried him," answered Yosef.
The guard nodded as if to say, "And thou too wilt dwell here."
"But this I beg to tell the gentlemen. In the city out there are trouble and suffering, but when any one comes here he lies peacefully. I think often to myself: 'Will the Lord God torture souls in that other world also? Is it little that man suffers here?'"
After a time Helena finished praying. Yosef gave her his arm again. Yosef was silent; evidently something was weighing on his heart. By design or by chance he led Helena along a path different from the first one. All at once, when near the gate, he pointed to one of the graves, and said in a kind of cold voice,—
"See, Helena, that man there loved thee during his life more than Potkanski, and still thou hast not mentioned him."