Cantor
To such words if I listen God will burn me with lightning. Better I should be dead than my son should holler unholy words in my ears! Get out! Out from my house! You loafer from the sidewalks! You tramp! You bum! You actor in a theatre!... You jazz singer! [He is seized by a fit of coughing, and he sinks into a chair. Sara hastens to his side.]
Sara
Jakie! The water! From the sideboard! [Jack goes quickly to sideboard, pours a glass of water and brings it over.] Yosele, you shouldn’t excite yourself so. Look, Jakie, see how white your Papa’s face is. [Takes glass of water from Jack.] Here, Yosele, drink it slow. Jakie, my son, come, tell him you are sorry. Tell him you are ashamed.
Jack
How can I, Mama? If I can’t be proud of being a jazz singer, then I can’t be proud of anything. It’s all I’ve got, Mama, it’s all I am. [Gets hat, stick and bag, then pauses.] Well, there won’t be any more arguments around here on my account, I’ll tell you that. I was away for five years—I can stay away longer. I’m sorry if I did anything to make you feel so bad, Papa. But you can make up your mind to this. I’m a young fellow, and I’m going to live my life in my own way. I’m not going to stay down here and sing prayers that don’t mean anything to me any more. Maybe I could do it when I was a kid, but I’m not going to do it now. I’m never going to do it. That’s all. [To Sara in lower voice.] Well, I’m going to the hotel. I’ll call you up as soon as I get settled. [Goes to door.] Goodbye, Mama. [Sara indicates Cantor sitting, broken, by the table.] Goodbye, Papa.... I’m very sorry—I’m very sorry that you just—don’t understand. [He goes.]
Sara
[Touches Cantor on shoulder]. He’s gone, Yosele. Our Jakie is gone.
Cantor
[Without moving, head sunk on chest]. Did you heard how he sang? The same sighs, the same tears I taught him in the synagogue—that I put in his voice he should sing to God—now he uses them to sing in his jazz music. [His hand on the table encounters the praying shawl which Jack brought.] A fine birthday present I got. My son brought it to me. A praying shawl from Palestine, from the dirty hands of a loafer.