A little gleam passed over Yossel's dingy face. 'No, not Vienna—it is an unholy place—but Prague! Prague where there is a great Rabbi and the old, old underground synagogue that God has preserved throughout the generations.'
'Well, why not go and see it?' suggested the artist.
Yossel stared. 'Is it for that you tore me away from my Talmud?'
'N—no, not exactly for that,' stammered Schneemann. 'Only seeing you glued to it gave me the idea what a pity it was that you should not travel and sit at the feet of great Rabbis?'
'But how shall I travel to them? My crutches cannot walk so far as Prague.'
'Oh, I'd lend you the money to ride,' said the artist lightly.
'But I could never repay it.'
'You can repay me in Heaven. You can give me a little bit of your Gan Iden' (Paradise).
Yossel shook his head. 'And after I had the fare, how should I live? Here I make a few Gulden by writing letters for people to their relatives in America; in Prague everybody is very learned; they don't need a scribe. Besides, if I cannot die in Palestine I might as well die where I was born.'
'But why can't you die in Palestine?' cried the artist with a new burst of hope. 'You shall die in Palestine, I promise you.'