SE I ZE THE DAY
409
asked him whether he had reserved his seat in the synagogue for Yom
Kippur.
"No," said Wilhelm.
"Well, you better hurry up if you expect to say
Yiskor
for your
parents. I never miss."
And Wilhelm thought, Yes, I suppose I should say a prayer for
Mother once in a while. His mother had belonged to the Reform con–
gregation. His father had no religion. At the cemetery Wilhelm had paid
a man to say a prayer for her. He was among the tombs and he wanted
to be tipped for the
EI molai rachamin.
"Thou God of Mercy," he
thought that meant.
]J,'gan Aden-"in
Paradise." Singing, they drew it
out,
B'gan Ay-den.
The broken bench beside the grave made him wish
to do something. Wilhelm often prayed in his own manner. He did
not go to the synagogue but he would occasionally perform certain de–
votions, according to his feelings. Now he reflected, In Dad's eyes I am
the wrong kind of Jew. He doesn't like the way I act. Only he is the
right kind of Jew. Whatever you are, it always turns out to be the
wrong kind.
Mr. Rappaport grumbled and whiffed at his long cigar, and the
board, like a swarm of electrical bees, whirred.
"Since you were in the chicken business, I thought you'd speculate
in eggs, Mr. Rappaport." Wilhelm, with his warm, panting laugh, sought
to charm the old man.
"Oh. Yeah. Loyalty, hey?" said old Rappaport. "I should stick
to them. I spent a lot of time amongst chickens. I got to be an expert
chicken sexer. When the chick hatches you have to tell the boys from
the girls. It's not easy. You need long, long experience. What do you
think, it's a joke? A whole industry depends on it. Yes, now and then
I buy a contract eggs. What have you got today?"
Wilhelm said anxiously, "Lard. Rye."
"Buy? Sell?"
"Bought."
"Uh," said the old man. Wilhelm could not determine what he
meant by this. But of course you couldn't expect him to make himself
any clearer. It was not in the code to give information to anyone. Sick
with desire, Wilhelm waited for Mr. Rappaport to make an exception
in his case. Just this once! Because it was critical. Silently, by a sort
of telepathic concentration he begged the old man to speak the single
word that would save him, give him the merest sign. "Oh, please–
please help," he nearly said.
If
Rappaport would close one eye, or lay
his head to one side, or raise his finger and point to a column in the
paper or to a figure on his pad. A hint! A hint!
A long perfect ash formed on the end of the cigar, the white ghost
of the leaf with all its veins and its fainter pungency.
It
was ignored,
in its beauty, by the old man. For it was beautiful. Wilhelm he ignored
as well.
Then Tamkin said to him, "Wilhelm, look at the jump our rye
just took."
