AHARON APPELFELD
435
the sanctuary. They complained about the carriages and the dampness,
removed their galoshes, and sat in the first two rows.
"Who'll lead the prayers today?" asked the Rabbi.
No one responded.
"I'll do it, with your permission."
The prayer was quiet and fluent. Some of them prayed with closed
eyes, and some buried their faces in the prayer books. The Rabbi loved
their prayer. Old age softens the loss of faith. A person forgets his doubts
for a moment and prays as his ancestors had prayed.
After prayers, Hirzl served coffee and cheese turnovers. Seeing the
steaming coffee, the old men 's eyes lit up, and something of their hidden
being rose to their faces. The Rabbi knew them well. It isn't easy to
spend your last few days far from your house and your bed, in an old age
home on the outskirts of the city. At one time he used to preach to
them and say, "Look, I send carriages to bring you here. Isn't it good to
start the day with prayer?" Remarks like that made them angrier than
anything. "We don't want to pray," they grumbled.
"Why?"
"Because we don't want to pray at a set time."
It had been a struggle, and the Rabbi won, neither a full victory nor
a pleasant one. The old men acceded to his demand, not because they
yearned for prayer, but rather for Hirzl's tasty breakfasts, the good
cigarette, and the pocket money. In his heart he hoped that one day
they would pray willingly, but that willingness was slow in coming.
Breakfast lasted for around an hour. During that hour the old men
exchanged remarks about the previous night, their alienated sons, the
wicked bureaucracy, and about one old man who couldn't stand the
solitude and had fled from the old age home. If the carriage-drivers had
not come to fetch them, they would have kept sitting there, but the
carriage- drivers' time was dear. They prodded them to finish the meal.
"You mustn't rush people while they're eating," the Rabbi used to re–
proach them. This time too he reproached them, but aside from that lit–
tle unpleasantness, nothing else happened that morning. The carriages
returned whence they had come.
When he came back to his office, he found a telegram on his desk.
He opened it cautiously. The large letters immediately pounded him in
the face. Donia, his beloved daughter, whom he hadn't seen in eleven
years, she and none other had sent to him, "On Thursday our son Hein–
rich will be ten years old. We would be pleased to see you in our
home." He read it again and again, and the more he read it, the more
his eyes were dazzled. He cautiously leaned on his arms and sat in the
chair. In high school Donia had fallen in love with a Christian boy, a
