"What is the matter with you, cantor?" said a singer to him one day.
"Ha, what is the matter?" asked the cantor, with a start, thinking they had already found out. "You ask what is the matter with me? Then you know something about it, ha!"
"No, I know nothing. That is why I ask you why you look so upset."
"Upset, you say? Nothing more than upset, ha? That's all?"
"The cantor must be thinking out some new piece for the Solemn Days," decided the choir.
Another month went by, and the cantor had not got the better of his fear. Life had become distasteful to him. If he had known for certain that his voice was gone, he would perhaps have been calmer. Verfallen! No one can live forever (losing his voice and dying was one and the same to him), but the uncertainty, the tossing oneself between yes and no, the Olom ha-Tohu of it all, embittered the cantor's existence.
At last, one fine day, the cantor resolved to get at the truth: he could bear it no longer.
It was evening, the wife had gone to the market for meat, and the choir had gone home, only the eldest singer, Yössel "bass," remained with the cantor.
The cantor looked at him, opened his mouth and shut it again; it was difficult for him to say what he wanted to say.
At last he broke out with: