Said the child to his mother, “Why don’t you tell Erela that I was with you in the synagogue — then, at the New Year, when they brought the head of Rabbi Amnon and placed it on the lectern, and he said the Unetaneh Tokef prayer.” “When was that?” asked his mother.
Said the child, “Come, Mother, and let me whisper to you.” “What are you saying?” cried the child’s mother in surprise. “In that year you were not even born.” “But I was already in the world,” said the child. “How, son, how?”
The child smiled and said, “It was then, in that year when you fainted in the synagogue, and all the women were excited and brought you fainting drops.” Said Sara Pearl, “That happened in the year I was pregnant with him.” “So you see, Mother,” said Raphael, “I was in the synagogue and saw everything. Now, Mother, tell Erela I was speaking the truth.” Tears stood in the eyes of the child’s mother and she said, “What a memory he has, God keep him.” “It’s wrong to encourage him in his fancies,” said Erela.
Daniel drummed on the table with his fingers and said, “Arguments I hear; you started with a story and ended with an argument.”
“Daddy,” the child said, “What is an argument?” Said Daniel, “Erela, how can we explain it to him?” Said Erela, “What do you mean how can we explain it? Surely it’s simple: anything that people argue about is called an argument.”
The child’s father smiled and said, “You have learned Bible, son, and you remember how Abraham spoke to the Almighty about Sodom: ‘Perhaps there are fifty righteous men in the city; will You sweep away the righteous with the wicked?’—and so forth.” “That isn’t an argument,” said the child. “So what is it, supplication and entreaty?” “That’s Torah,” said the child. “For them,” said Erela, “everything is Torah.” “Not everything is Torah,” said the child, “only what is written in the Torah is Torah.”
Said Daniel Bach to his wife, “Perhaps we should have tea? What do you think about that?” “The kettle is boiling,” said Mrs. Bach. “I’ll bring the tea right away. You’ll be so kind as to drink a glass of tea, sir, won’t you? I’m sorry I didn’t bake a cake.” Daniel Bach smiled and said, “My wife is of the opinion that one does not fulfill the duty of after Sabbath supper with a cup of tea. But who told you a glass of tea calls for cakes? Was it from the Germans in Vienna you learned that?” Mrs. Bach replied, “And without that, don’t I bake you a cake?” and she blushed as she spoke.
“It is the Shavuot festival that calls for cakes,” said her husband. “I hope to bake you a cake before then,” said Mrs. Bach. “If you really want to, I won’t stop you,” said her husband. “Let us drink the tea before it gets cold.”
I drank and said, “From now on, Reb Hayim’s work will be easier; the spring is coming and the stove will not need wood.”
Mrs. Bach sighed and said, “Spring days are coming and winter days are going.” Said Mr. Bach, “Even the stoves need a rest. Have you heard that Reb Hayim’s son-in-law is pressing him to come and stay with him?” “And what did Reb Hayim reply?” “Who knows? It isn’t Reb Hayim’s way to tell.”
Said Erela, “Do you think you did right, sir, to take the book from the women?” “Which book?” “That book whose name I forget — the one they put under the heads of silly women when they give birth.” “Are you afraid, miss, that the town may remain without its talisman?” “Not at all,” said Erela, “but I am worried about this fanaticism, and because people will say that the Land of Israel needs talismans and charms and all kinds of stuff and nonsense.”
Erela’s father smiled and said, “On the contrary, Erela, it is an honor for Szibucz if people see that we too are not short of wonderworkers. And if we cannot help in the building of the Land with money, at least we help with souls.”
Said Erela, “If I may speak before my father, I permit myself to ask: What did Father mean by that word?” “What word do you mean?” “What word do I mean? If my father does not remember, I take the liberty of reminding him. What did you really mean when you spoke of ‘souls,’ that people could say that we are helping the building of the Land with souls.”
“Now that our friend has been good enough to send them that book,” replied Daniel, “the women will not miscarry there. The result is that we are helping them with souls.” “Father,” said Erela, “you make me angry.” Said Mrs. Bach, “You can’t deny that the book has often done what midwives and doctors could not do.” Erela looked at her mother angrily and shrugged her shoulders, saying, “I know there are still many people who believe in nonsense, but that it should be my fate to have my father and mother among them, that is too hard to bear.”
Her father looked at her quietly and said, “My daughter Erela keeps to her principle that whatever is beyond our reason must not be used, even if she knows it is useful to many people, as we have seen in the virtues of the book, which has helped many women.” “What is the use of it,” said Erela, “helping to bear children who will believe all that nonsense?” Bach stroked his artificial leg and said, “My daughter Erela is a rationalist. Perhaps we should drink another glass?” “Many thanks. I believe the time has come for me to go.” “Not at all,” said Mr. Bach, “wait a little, sir, and let us spend some more time together. What news have you heard from the Land of Israel? For several weeks we have not had a letter from my father. Perhaps something has happened to him? Perhaps he is sick, or there have been disturbances and they have attacked Ramat Rahel? This Mufti, what is he?” “He is an Arab.” “And if he is an Arab,” said Mr. Bach, “does innocent blood have to be spilled?” “Not because he is an Arab,” I replied, “but because the strong are always likely to attack the weak. And so long as we are few and weak, we can expect any kind of trouble.” Said Erela, “What you are saying makes me laugh. Anyone who hears what you say might imagine that we are sitting there with folded arms, stretching out our necks to the slaughter, like our Jews in Szibucz. Anyone who reads the papers is well aware of all the heroic deeds that are being done there.”
I shook my head and said, “I have seen more than what is written in newspapers. But what is the use of heroism that destroys its heroes? If the hero must always be engaged in warfare, in the end he is weakened and falls.” Said Erela, “According to what you say, it follows that we should stretch out our throats and say, ‘Executioner, here is the neck; come, butcher me!’ as our poet Bialik said so well in his poem ‘On the Slaughter.’” “That was not what I meant, miss,” said I. “So what did you mean?” said she. “I believe I am entitled to say that I understand the meaning of words. Or perhaps there is another meaning to the concept of hero, which I have not succeeded in finding in the dictionary.” “There is no other meaning,” I replied, “but if one may be entitled to suggest an interpretation that is not in the dictionary, I would say that a hero is the man whom everyone fears, so that no one comes to attack him.” Erela laughed and said, “Utopia! If that is the kind of hero you are looking for, sir, you should go to the sports field. There you will find the hero you seek.” Said Mr. Bach, “And will things go on there like this forever?”