Julie led the way up to the fourth floor. They entered a very large room with mullion windows; one, at the extreme end, of yellow glass. He was conscious of warmth, a glory of golden sunlight, the odor of a hothouse, many palms. Under a tropical tree with enormous leaves spread out like an umbrella sat a man with a black silk skull cap on his head. He was absorbed in his book. He did not raise his eyes. Floyd at a first glance caught the impression of age, because of a long thick white beard, falling in waves, turning up at the edges in curls, which reminded him of Michael Angelo’s Moses, but this statue lived. Julie spoke very respectfully. She seemed in awe of him.
“Grandfather, I’ve brought Floyd Garrison to see you.”
He arose and came toward Floyd. He wore a long black silk coat reaching to his ankles, with velvet collar, cuffs, and slippers. His feet were very small, his hands like a woman’s; the voice which came from that frail body was clear, penetrating.
“My name is Joseph Abravanel.”
His eyes were young. Floyd felt himself being measured and weighed, but that didn’t disturb him; he had no secrets.
“I know all about you, Floyd. I’ve watched you grow up. That little snowball fight with Martin twelve years ago this winter was fine. You were small; but you buried him.” He laughed like a boy. Floyd sat down beside him, listening intensely; he didn’t want to lose a word. Julie flittered about the room, watching them.
“I like you, Floyd; you’re a good fighter.”
“Oh, no,” laughed Floyd, “I’m a pacifist.”
“Wait, you haven’t found yourself yet. We Jews are fighters, although the world says we are not. We’ve been fighting for thousands of years.”