That Shlomo Shamir who led the prayers, an upholsterer by trade, knows how to read the Torah and lead the prayers. By virtue of his praying he once won a medal for valor. How? Once some Jewish soldiers were holding a service on the Days of Awe, and Shlomo led the prayers. The commander of his regiment passed by and heard him praying. “Corporal Shamir is a brave man,” he said to his companions, and told them to give him a medal for valor.
After the service the worshippers wished each other a peaceful and pleasant Sabbath and went home quietly. I too went to my home, namely my hotel, for I live in the Land of Israel and my home is many hundreds of miles from here, and I am only a guest for the night.
I have already described my weekday table at the beginning of the book, so surely it is fitting that I tell of the Sabbath table.
On Sabbath eves, only the three of us sit together: my host, his wife, and I, because his sons and daughters come in for the meal whenever they feel like it, and they do not feel like coming just at the moment when their father is reciting the Kiddush and singing the Sabbath hymns. When there is a guest, if he is an observer of the Sabbath he eats with us and we can pronounce together the Invitation to the Grace, which is said when three observant Jews are present; if he is not, Krolka sets him at a table by himself. On weekdays everyone is the innkeeper’s master, but on Sabbath he is his own master. On weekdays, when a man’s livelihood is measured out to him, he must look after his livelihood and humble himself before those on whom he depends; on Sabbath, when the Holy One, blessed be He, Himself covers the cost of the Sabbath, a man is free from the servitude of business and the yoke of others.
The hotelkeeper is not in the habit of going to synagogue on Sabbath eve, for he finds it difficult to walk because of his rheumatism; his own synagogue is far from his home and he does not go to another synagogue nearby because he does not wish to change from one holy place to another. He welcomes the Sabbath at home and waits for me before beginning the meal.
When I come in he puts his little prayer book in front of him and recites the Kiddush, his glass in his hand and the prayer book open. He is over fifty years old: for thirty years, no doubt, he has said the Kiddush on Sabbath eves, and every year has its fifty Sabbaths, so go and reckon how many times he has recited it; but still he has to hold his prayer book open during the Kiddush. First, because his heart is troubled and he is afraid he might make a mistake; and second, because a miracle happened to him through his prayer book and he was saved from death. During the war a bullet was fired at him while his prayer book was over his heart; the bullet struck the prayer book and pierced the pages until it came to the page of the Kiddush for Sabbath eve.
After cutting the bread he sings, “All who sanctify the Sabbath day.” His voice chokes; it is not a voice but a kind of echo, like the sound that comes from wet wood as it burns. But the enthusiasm pent up in his heart makes a chant for itself, a kind of melody that stops short before it can sound out. His face is sad and his shoulders quiver, and sometimes he gropes with his hand under the table like a man seeking support. Meanwhile his wife sits opposite with her hands on her bosom, looking at him sometimes with affection and sometimes with concern. And when he reaches the verse “Their righteousness shall shine forth like the light of the seven days,” she rises and brings him his soup, and at the same time Krolka comes in and brings the wife her soup. Then Krolka goes back to the kitchen and brings me my vegetable soup. “When I sit like this with my husband on Sabbath eves,” says the innkeeper’s wife to me, “with our table set and the white cloth spread on the table and candles burning, I say to myself in wonder: Considering all the troubles that have come upon us — for my husband was in the war and was in danger of death at any moment — I really should not have had strength to endure, and not only have I endured all the troubles, but I have the happiness of welcoming the Sabbath in peace.”
As for her sons and daughters, Mrs. Zommer says that whenever her husband, who was far away from his children all through the war and did not have the worry of them, sees them doing something wrong, he is angry at once. But she, who had the worry of them all the time and saw them growing up, does not pick upon them for every little trifle. On the contrary, she thanks God that they have come as far as they have. Didn’t they run about in the streets of Vienna for a long time like nobody’s children, refusing to accept authority? And when they did accept her authority she was not free to look after them, because all day she was busy working, never stopping except to bring the work to her customers, get her pay, and buy food. Sometimes she would stand all night until morning at the door of a shop, waiting for the shopkeeper to open up and give her her ration. When she was fortunate enough to get it, she would prepare a meal for herself and her children, and they would eat together and be happy, and obey her and stay at home with her. If she was not fortunate enough to get her ration, the children would defy her and go out to the coffeehouses to beg for their food, and she did not have the heart to keep them at home when their stomachs were empty.
And how was it that she came back with nothing, when she had money and food tickets? Because the bullies would push her aside and take their ration first, so that when her turn came the shopkeeper would close his store and say, “There’s nothing left.” In those days men had lost their feelings; everyone robbed and stole in order to eat. Once she stood all night in front of the shop and returned in the morning empty-handed. She got into a streetcar and wept, because there was no food left in the house and nothing for her children to eat. An old Gentile saw her and asked, “Why are you so sad, madam?” She answered him that her husband had gone to the war, leaving her all by herself with four children to support; that she made bags and knapsacks for the soldiers, and yesterday she had stopped work to fetch food; she had stood all night in front of the shop, but when her turn came to buy a man snatched away the ration card and took her share. The old man sighed at the wickedness of men and said to her kindly, “Don’t be so sad, madam; if he snatched the card he did not snatch the money.” “What is the use of the money if it does not buy food?” she replied. “Well said, madam,” said he, filling his pipe, “What is the use of money? When children are hungry, we cannot say to them, ‘You are hungry, sit down and chew the money.’” As she was about to leave, he whispered to her, “Come with me, come with me to my house; maybe I can give you a sack of potatoes for your money.” So she went with him until they reached the outskirts of the town and got on a streetcar in which they traveled until it stopped. Then they got out and walked for as far as they walked and reached the place that they reached. All the time the Gentile spoke to her kindly and said such pleasant things as she had never heard from anyone in Vienna. While they were talking he sang the praises of his potatoes. They were good and heavy, he said, not like the potatoes they sold in the market, which were light as feathers. When they reached his house he asked her, “How much money do you have?” She told him. He filled his pipe, puffed a while, and said, “I’m afraid you don’t have the strength to carry all I will give you for your money.” “Don’t be afraid, sir,” said she. “God will give me strength for the sake of my children, so that they should not go hungry.” “Blessings on your head,” said he, “for not turning your mind away from our God in heaven. For that I will give you a piece of cheese as a gift.” So she gave him all her money and wanted to take the sack. But the Gentile said to his servant or his son, “Take the sack and carry it to the streetcar, and don’t move away before you get it on the streetcar.” So the man took the sack and went with her, while the old man and his wife parted from her very affectionately and said, “Go in peace, madam, and think kindly of us.” She was sorry she had given all her money for the potatoes and left herself with only enough to pay the fare, so that she had nothing to give the fellow who had taken so much trouble for her. “Never mind,” said he, “never mind,” and he said farewell, wishing her pleasure in the food. After some time she reached home tired and weary, because she had stood outside all night and because the sack was heavy. But her joy gave her strength, and she rallied. She assembled her children and said to them, “Just wait a little while, children, and I will cook you some potatoes, and while they are cooking I will give you a piece of cheese!” The children fell upon the sack and opened it with loud cries of joy. When they opened it they found a block of plaster, and under the plaster clods of earth.