"I am not equal to describing, to living through those times again; but my sorrow and her sorrow brought us nearer together."
Lukave appeared in the distance.
"I will tell you, in the few minutes I have left, that anyone so unhappy as that woman, and at the same time so full of sympathy and compassion for others, I never saw; and all so simple, so natural, without any exaggeration.
"She never left Maria's bedside; she got round her husband to lend me money at a lower rate of interest. She was our watcher, our housekeeper, our cook, our most devoted friend, and when Maria died, it was almost harder to comfort her than me.
"Then it was I became convinced that hatred between nations is not natural. There's just a lot of trouble in the world, and the more passionate would protest, only the false scribe, the political advocate, drafts instead a denunciation of the Jews.
"I saw clearly that the Jews are not inimical to us—that we can live in peace."
Lukave draws nearer and nearer to us—or we to it—and still I am afraid of the end. I interrupt him and ask:
"And what became of the woman?"
"How should I know? I buried my wife, sold the apothecary's shop, cried when I said good-bye to my neighbor, and—that's all. Now I live in Lukave. I am not doing well there, either."
"And what was the name of the little town you lived in before?"