“I just want to tell you why I'm leaving. I—”
“Won't you come in?” The principal rose and placed a chair for me near her desk. “Now tell me all.” She leaned forward with an inviting interest.
I looked up, and met the steady gaze of eyes shining with light. In a moment all my anger fled. “The De Coverley Papers” were forgotten. The warm friendliness of her face held me like a familiar dream. I couldn't speak. It was as if the sky suddenly opened in my heart.
“Do go on,” she said, and gave me a quick nod. “I want to hear.”
The repression of centuries rushed out of my heart. I told her everything—of the mud hut in Sukovoly where I was born, of the czar's pogroms, of the constant fear of the Cossack, of Gedalyah Mindel's letter, of our hopes in coming to America, and my search for an American who would make America real.
“I am so glad you came to me,” she said. And after a pause, “You can help me.”
“Help you?” I cried. It was the first time that an American suggested that I could help her.
“Yes, indeed. I have always wanted to know more of that mysterious, vibrant life—the immigrant. You can help me know my girls. You have so much to give—”
“Give—that's what I was hungering and thirsting all these years—to give out what's in me. I was dying in the unused riches of my soul.”
“I know; I know just what you mean,” she said, putting her hand on mine.