"Tell more. Why have you grown silent?" my father asked me.
"Leave him alone. Did you ever see the like?" put in my mother hastily. "The child is tired. The child is hungry, and he goes on saying to him: 'Tell! Tell! Tell! And tell!'"
. . . . .
The people began to go away by degrees. And we found ourselves alone, my father and my mother, Busie and I. My mother went off to the kitchen. In a few minutes she came back, carrying in her hand a beautiful Passover plate—a plate I knew well. It was surrounded by a design of big green fig leaves.
"Perhaps you would like something to eat, Shemak? It is a long time to wait until the 'Seder.'"
That is what my mother said to me, and with so much affection, so much loyalty and so much passionate devotion. And Busie got up, and with silent footfalls, brought me a knife and fork—the well-known Passover knife and fork. Everything was familiar to me. Nothing was changed, nor different by a hair. It was the same plate with the big green fig leaves; the same knife and fork with the white bone handles. The same delicious odour of melted goose-fat came in to me from the kitchen; and the fresh Passover cake had the same Garden-of-Eden taste. Nothing was changed by a hair. Nothing was different in the least detail.
Only, in the olden times, we ate together on the Passover eve, Busie and I, off the same plate. I remember that we ate off the same beautiful Passover plate that was surrounded by a design of big green fig leaves. And, at that time, my mother gave us nuts. I remember how she filled our pockets with nuts. And, at that time, we took hold of one another's hands, Busie and I. And I remember that we let ourselves go, in the open. We flew like eagles. I ran; she ran after me. I leaped over the logs of wood; she leaped after me. I was up; she was up. I was down; she was down.
"Shemak! How long are we going to run, Shemak?"
So said Busie to me. And I answered her in the words of the "Song of Songs": "Until the day break, and the shadows flee away."
. . . . .