"Old people," said I, "I have brought you news from your son Samuel." As soon as father heard me speak Yiddish, he ran to the window, rubbed his hands against the moist pane, by way of washing them, and shook hands with me.
"Peace be with you, young man," said he. Mother left her corner and stood up before me. Father began fumbling for his glasses, and asked me: "News from my son, you say? Where did you see him last?"
"And when did you see him?" asked mother, shivering.
I mentioned some imaginary place and date.
"How does he feel? Was he in the war? Is he well? Does he expect to come home?"
Many such questions followed one another in quick succession. Meanwhile father took me aside, and whispered into my ear: "How about . . . . how about religion?" Out of sheer spitefulness I wanted to worry the poor old folks a little; may the Lord not consider it a sin on my part.
I said: "Had Rabbi Simhah the Shohet been in his place, he surely would have withstood all temptations!" . . . .
"What, converted?!"
I kept silent, and the old people took it as a sign of affirmation.
They hung their heads despondently, and kept silent, too. Then father asked me once more: