I put on my hat and said, “Father in heaven, how much does a man know what is near and what is far?” “What do you mean: How does a man know?” said Erela. “Whatever is near is near, and whatever is far is far.”
“Is that also something you have learned from geography?” said I, jesting. “First,” replied Erela, “this is something every intelligent person knows by himself. And second, anyone who studies geography no longer has any doubts as to these concepts.” “Geography,” said I to her, “is androgynous.”
Miss Erela turned her spectacles on me in astonishment, then she took them off and wiped them very thoroughly, then she put them back and asked me, “On what grounds do you say so? From the grammatical point of view there is no evidence for what you say.” I bowed and said, “I am not a conceited man, and I do not say that there is grammatical evidence for every word that comes from my lips. How is your little brother?” Said Erela, “Why do you call him little? If you are referring to his years, he is certainly not little, and if you are thinking of his intelligence, he is greater than several people who display themselves as great.” I bowed to her and said, “We have reached our destination, here is your house before you. If I were not afraid you might regard me as a wonderworker, I would tell you that I know what you have in your heart to say to me.” “First,” said Erela, “I do not believe in miracles, and second, no one knows what is in his neighbor’s heart.”
I said to her, “Look, miss, this man who stands before you knows what is in your heart and what you wish to say to me.” Said Erela, “I’m afraid you might be proved wrong.” “If so, I will tell you. You want to go into your house and bid me farewell.”
Said Erela, “If so, you are mistaken. I wanted to say au revoir,”
So I was mistaken. I had forgotten that such a word still existed.
Miss Erela turned and went into her house, and I turned toward my hotel.
I put the key into the lock, but it did not open.
Krolka came out with a candle in her hand and said, “What is this, sir, don’t you know how to open the door?” “I am surprised at it myself,” I replied. Krolka looked at the key in my hand and said, “That isn’t the key of our hotel.” I looked at it and saw that it was the key to the Beit Midrash. Between one thing and another I had changed the key of the hotel for the key of the Beit Midrash.
Chapter two and forty. With the Sick Child
The holy Sabbath passed, but not like other Sabbaths. When the Holy One, blessed be He, wishes to chastise His creatures, He makes their Sabbaths sorrowful.
After the closing benediction, I went to Daniel Bach’s house to pay for his wood. Before going in, I collected the sweets that had remained whole. I gave them to the child. He took them and arranged them in front of him in the form of a heart, and then in the form of a Shield of David. Then he took one and gave it to his mother, one to his father, then one to his sister. Finally, he took two and gave them to me.
His mother asked him, “Why did you not give the gentleman in the same way as you gave us?” “I don’t know,” he replied. “You don’t know, my son?” said the mother in surprise. “I’m sure you do know.” Said the child, “First I didn’t know, now I do know.” “If so, tell us, son,” said his mother. Said the child, “At first, I thought: Since all the candies are his, why do I have to give him any?” “And what did you think afterward, when you did give him some?” “Afterward,” replied the child, “I thought perhaps he hadn’t left any for himself; that’s why I gave him some.” “And why did you give each of us one and him two?” “So that if he wanted to give, he would still have something left to give,” answered the child. “Isn’t he wise? Isn’t he good?” said his mother. “Let me kiss you, son.”
His father said to the child, “Ask the gentleman to tell you a nice story.” The child said to me, “If you can tell stories, so tell me what Grandpa is doing just now.” Said Erela, “That isn’t in the category of stories.” “Well, what is it?” said the child. “When you learn the theory of literature, you will know what is a story and what isn’t a story,” said Erela. “And if someone doesn’t learn the theory of literature, doesn’t he know what a story is?” said the child. “Certainly he doesn’t know,” replied Erela. “So why don’t you know how to tell stories?” said the child. “You’ve learned the theory of literature, haven’t you?” Said Erela, “But I know what is a story and what isn’t a story.” “And what Grandpa is doing isn’t a story?” said the child. “No,” said Erela, “that isn’t a story.” “And what is it?” “That is in the category of information,” said Erela, “so long as it is important, but if it isn’t important, it’s nothing at all.” “Well,” said the child, “let the gentleman tell me the story of nothing at all.” Erela turned her spectacles on the child and said in surprise, “What do you mean ‘nothing’? If there is nothing, there isn’t anything to tell.” Said the child, “Grandpa is doing some thing, so there is something to tell. Tell me what my grandfather is doing just now, sir.”
I passed my hand over my forehead and said, “At this moment your grandfather is sitting in a courtyard, in front of the little house — no, in front of the large house, with his head bowed in thought, and he is saying, ‘Wonder of wonders, it is not yet Passover and already it is warm in the open, just as in the days of spring.’”
“And Amnon, where is he?”
“Amnon? Who is Amnon?”
“Don’t you know? Amnon is my uncle Yeruham’s son.”
“Amnon,” I said to him, “is sitting in the children’s room eating porridge with milk, and he does not leave anything in the plate, because he is a good boy and eats everything he is given; so the maid gives him an apple. Although oranges are better than apples, the nurse believes that children need apples. What do you think, dear, does she do right?” “It isn’t so,” said the child. “What isn’t so?” “Amnon is not sitting in the children’s room,” replied the child. “And where is he sitting?” “You tell me.” “Wait a moment, dear,” I said to him, “and I will think a little.” Said the child, “And do you have to think?” “And you, dear, don’t you think?” “I don’t think,” said the child. “But what then do you do?” “I open my eyes and see,” said the child, “and sometimes I shut my eyes like this and see more.” He shut his eyes and smiled. “And what do you see?” I asked. “First I want to know what came into your mind,” said the child. I replied, “I had no time to think. Now I will do the same as you. I will shut my eyes and see what Amnon is doing.” I closed my eyes and smiled, like Raphael. Said Raphael, “So tell me — what is Amnon doing.” Said I, “Amnon is sitting in Grandpa’s lap, twisting his beard and saying, ‘Grandpa, when I grow up, I will grow a big beard like yours.’ Grandpa says, ‘Indeed I hope so.’ Then he kisses him and says, ‘You are wise, son, wiser than all the lads in the settlement.’” “And what is my uncle Yeruham doing now?” said Raphael. I replied, “How can I know? He is sitting high, high above the seventh heaven, on the right hand of the Holy One, blessed be He. You know, my son, that those who are killed for the Land of Israel are most precious to the Almighty, and He delights in them every day, every hour, every moment.”
“And when they are sitting on God’s right hand, what are they doing?” said Raphael. “Be still, son,” said I, “and let me listen. I believe they are reading the Torah before Him — the section about the sacrifice of Isaac, for the melody is like the melody of the Torah reading at the New Year.” The child pricked up his ears, looked up, and said, “In fact, that’s how it is.” Said Erela, “How do you know in fact that’s how it is? Have you ever been in a synagogue at the New Year and heard the reading?” Said the child, “I’ve been in a synagogue and heard the reading of the Torah.” His mother looked at him in surprise: How can he say that? Since the day he was born he has not stirred from his bed. And she lowered her head in silence.