“Yes. So it pleased them to say. I suppose that was because Moses too saw a tree on fire that didn’t burn. And there the gound was also holy.”
“Oh.”
“Yes. And when you begin going to cheder you’ll know more about these things than I do.” She stopped pacing, moved abruptly toward the china-closet. “I think I’ll set the table — do something.”
“Was it holy?” He drew her on.
“What? The light the peasants saw? Ach, nonsense! My father said that the truth was an old Jewess had been walking along the road through the woods. Where she was coming from I don’t know—”
She paused again. Three plates had been taken from the china closet and set on the table. The fourth, still in her hand, kept fluttering back and forth as though it were impossible for her to decide whether to set it on the table or to replace it on the stack she had taken it from. Finally, with a throaty exclamation, she set it on the table — before the chair on which Luter usually sat.
“Yes! So! Oh!” Her head went back as if returning thought were an impact. “Yes. Coming home, she was. Without doubt. And on the way, dusk overtook her. Yes. It was Friday. Now it chanced that she had candles with her — or so my father said, though he never said why. Perhaps she foresaw that she would be delayed. There’s no telling what women will do when they’re pious.” Her lips pressed together and she reddened ever so faintly setting the clinking silverware beside Luter’s plate. “She foresaw. Let us say, she foresaw. And with night coming on, she stopped beside the road and lit the candles and prayed over them as you’ve seen me pray. And having prayed, went on, leaving them lit — a Jew may not tamper with the candles once they’re burning and the prayer said. Then these peasants came along at night. And devout as she or more perhaps—” With a slight, spattering sound from the end of her lip, one cheek eddied in; she set the cup and saucer above Luter’s plate. “And perhaps drunk or surely dull-witted, saw the light in the woods — so my father said — and ran back and roused the village. They saw it and saw it vanish, and approaching, found nothing, heard nothing, only the sound of the woods. What more could they want? Priests came and high priests and consecrated the place.” Her eyes, momentarily meditative, kindled again, whisked to the door. She was listening again.
“Didn’t the candles leave another candle?” David strove to force her attention back again. “Like our candles? It’s water and candles.”
She shrugged impatiently. “Who bothered to look? The ground was holy; people soon remembered having seen angels; and there’s an end. And why hunt for candle-drippings. The altar did the village a mass of good.”
“How?”
“People, benighted ones, they came from all over Austria. They brought their sick, their maimed. They asked aid, they prayed for the dead and for better fortune. And they still do. And—” She paused, almost losing the thread, but regained it with a jolt. “While they were there, they had to eat, they had to buy things, they had to sleep somewhere. Fear not, those little candles kindled the day for the storekeepers in Lagronow. You see?”
“Yes, mama.”
“So much did they benefit Lagronow that Jews, merchants, in other villages also left a burning candle here or there. It never succeeded again.”
“But that wasn’t a real one,” he reminded her. “That wasn’t a real light. And — and without burning. But Moses, he—”
“Sh!” Sudden and sharp her warning.
David listened: The quick creak of the outer doorway. The slow and heavy footfall, carpet-muffled. That was his father’s way, a thrust of impatience followed by deliberation.
His mother, looking very pale, had opened the door a crack and stood there with one ear pressed against it. No sound of voices drifted up, no interweaving of a second footfall. She drew back, staring, shut the door carefully, sighed, but whether out of relief or apprehension, there was no telling, then stood attentive, waiting for him to enter.
In a few seconds, he did, and David knew by the very way the door swung open that his father was irritated. He came in — alone. The muscles under the dark jaws were bumpy, distinct, like cords twisted about and bulging. His eyes held a steady glower.
“Albert.” She smiled.
He made no answer, but breathing gustily, stripped off his coat — the jacket beneath always peeled with it — and removed his hat and handed them to her.
“I hope you haven’t prepared too much supper,” he began brusquely as he whipped his tie and collar off. “He wouldn’t come. Do you hear?” She had gone into David’s bedroom to hang up his coat.
“Yes.” Her voice preceded her. “I can use what’s left over. There’s no loss — especially in the winter — nothing spoils.”
“Hm!” He turned his back to her, rolled up his sleeves and bent over the sink. “And don’t prepare anything extra for him to-morrow. He’s not coming then either.” The squeezed soap slipped clacking into the sink. His teeth ground as he picked it up.
“No?” Her eyes, resting on his bent back opened in a worried flicker; her face sagged. But the next moment her voice was as barely surprised as a voice dared be and yet be non-committal. “What’s the matter?”
“Would I had known as little of him as I know his reasons!” He slapped his dripping palms angrily against his lean neck. “He wouldn’t say anything! He wouldn’t even ride home with me — had to go somewhere — some lame excuse! And that marriage-broker affair! Not a word! As though it had never been! As though he had never spoken about it! He took the keys from me in the morning, checked my overtime, and that was all!” He shut the water off with a wrathful jerk, snatched the towel. “God knows what he’s found or done or achieved! It’s too much for me! But why, tell me?” The towel paused in its swirling. “Do you think that if he found a woman who thought he was agreeable and had — she, I mean — a great deal of money, do you think that that might have given him a wry neck?”
A faint, troubled groan ushered in her answer. “I don’t know, Albert.”
“Now be honest!” He suddenly swung the towel into a ball, glared and thrust his lips out. “Answer me with a brunt!”
“What is it, Albert?” She lifted startled, fending hands. “What is it?”
Seeing her alarm, David squirmed back into his chair and watched them apprehensively under the rims of lowered eyes.
“I—” his father broke off, bit his lip. “Was anything said by — by me? Did I seem to be mocking him — when was it? — Friday night? When I told you he was going to a marriage broker?”
“Why, no, Albert!” Her body seemed to slacken. “No! Not at all! You said nothing that would offend any one! I thought he was amused!”
“You’re sure? You’re sure he didn’t leave so early because I — because of some jest I made?”
“No. You said nothing out of the way.”
“Unh! I thought I hadn’t! Well, what fiend is it that eggs him on then? He was like a man with a secret grudge. He wouldn’t speak! He wouldn’t look at me straight. A man I’ve known for months! A man who’s been here night after night!” He pulled a chair toward him, slumped into it. “At noon today, he ate his lunch with that Paul Zeeman. He knows I hate the man. He did that to hurt me. I know!”
“But — don’t — don’t let that upset you, Albert. I mean, don’t take offense at that! It’s — why—” She laughed nervously—“It’s too much like a school-girl’s device — this — this eating with another.”
“Is it?” he asked sarcastically. “Much you know about it! You haven’t seen him all day. It wasn’t only that! There were other things! I tell you there’s something seething in that skull of his! A hatred, for some mad reason! A vengeance biding its time! Do you know?” He suddenly drew back, looked up at her with narrowed, suspicious eyes. “You don’t seem dismayed — you don’t seem downcast enough!”