Children of the Ghetto

shamefacedly:

'Forgive me, father, I really couldn't help it. The idea of your talking about love! The oddity of it came over me all of a heap.'

'Why should I not talk about love?'

'Don't be so comically serious, father,' said Daniel, smiling afresh. 'What's come over you? What have you to do with love? One would think you were a romantic young fool on the stage. It's all nonsense about love. I don't love anybody, least of all Bessie Sugarman, so don't you go worrying your old head about my affairs. You get back to that musty book of yours there. I wonder if you've suddenly come across anything about love in that, and don't forget to use the reading glasses and not your ordinary spectacles, else it'll be a sheer waste of money. By the way, mother, remember to go to the Eye Hospital on Saturday to be tested. I feel sure it's time you had a pair of specs, too.'

'Don't I look old enough already?' thought Mrs. Hyams. But she said, 'Very well, Daniel,' and began to clear away his supper.

'That's the best of being in the fancy,' said Daniel cheerfully. 'There's no end of articles you can get at trade prices.'

He sat for half an hour turning over the evening paper, then went to bed. Mr. and Mrs. Hyams's eyes sought each other involuntarily but they said nothing. Mrs. Hyams fried a piece of Wurst for Miriam's supper and put it into the oven to keep hot, then she sat down opposite Mendel to stitch on a strip of fur, which had got unripped on one of Miriam's jackets. The fire burnt briskly, little flames leaped up with a crackling sound, the clock ticked quietly.

Beenah threaded her needle at the first attempt.

'I can still see without spectacles,' she thought bitterly. But she said nothing.

Mendel looked up furtively at her several times from his book. The meagreness of her parchment flesh, the thickening mesh of wrinkles, the snow-white hair struck him with almost novel force. But he said nothing. Beenah patiently drew her needle through and through the fur, ever and anon glancing at Mendel's worn spectacled face, the eyes deep in the sockets, the forehead that was bent over the folio furrowed painfully beneath the black Koppel, the complexion sickly. A lump seemed to be rising in her throat. She bent determinedly over her sewing, then suddenly looked up again. This time their eyes met. They did not droop them; a strange subtle flash seemed to pass from soul to soul. They gazed at each other, trembling on the brink of tears.

'Beenah.' The voice was thick with suppressed sobs.

'Yes, Mendel.'

'Thou hast heard?'

'Yes, Mendel.'

'He says he loves her not.'

'So he says.'

'It is lies, Beenah.'

'But wherefore should he lie?'

'Thou askest with thy mouth, not thy heart. Thou knowest that he wishes us not to think that he remains single for our sake. All his money goes to keep up this house we live in. It is the law of Moses. Sawest thou not his face when I spake of Sugarman's daughter?'

Beenah rocked herself to and fro, crying: 'My poor Daniel, my poor lamb! Wait a little. I shall die soon. The All-High is merciful. Wait a little.'

Mendel caught Miriam's jacket which was slipping to the floor and laid it aside.

'It helps not to cry,' said he gently, longing to cry with her. 'This cannot be. He must marry the maiden whom his heart desires. Is it not enough that he feels that we have crippled his life for the sake of our Sabbath? He never speaks of it, but it smoulders in his veins.'

'Wait a little!' moaned Beenah, still rocking to and fro.

'Nay, calm thyself.' He rose and passed his horny hand tenderly over her white hair. 'We must not wait. Consider how long Daniel has waited.'

'Yes, my poor lamb, my poor lamb!' sobbed the old woman.

'If Daniel marries,' said the old man, striving to speak firmly, 'we have not a penny to live upon. Our Miriam requires all her salary. Already she gives us more than she can spare. She is a lady, in a great position. She must dress finely. Who knows, too, but that we are in the way of a gentleman marrying her? We are not fit to mix with high people. But above all, Daniel must marry and I must earn your and my living as I did when the children were young.'

'But what wilt thou do?' said Beenah, ceasing to cry and looking up with affrighted face. 'Thou canst not go glaziering. Think of Miriam. What canst thou do, what canst thou do? Thou knowest no trade!'

'No, I know no trade,' he said bitterly. 'At home, as thou art aware, I was a stone-mason, but here I could get no work without breaking the Sabbath, and my hand has forgotten its cunning. Perhaps I shall get my hand back.' He took hers in the meantime. It was limp and chill, though so near the fire. 'Have courage.' he said. 'There is naught I can do here that will not shame Miriam. We cannot even go into an almshouse without shedding her blood. But the Holy One, blessed be He, is good. I will go away.'

'Go away!' Beenah's clammy hand tightened her clasp of his. 'Thou wilt travel with ware in the country?'

'No. If it stands written that I must break with my children, let the gap be too wide for repining. Miriam will like it better. I will go to America.'

'To America!' Beenah's heartbeat wildly. 'And leave me?' A strange sense of desolation swept over her.

'Yes-for a little, anyhow. Thou must not face the first hardships. I shall find something to do. Perhaps in America there are more Jewish stone-masons to get work from. God will not desert us. There I can sell ware in the streets-do as I will. At the worst I can always fall back upon glaziering. Have faith, my dove.'

The novel word of affection thrilled Beenah through and through.

'I shall send thee a little money; then as soon as I can see my way dear I shall send for thee and thou shalt come out to me and we will live happily together and our children shall live happily here.'

But Beenah burst into fresh tears.

'Woe! Woe!' she sobbed. 'How wilt thou, an old man, face the sea and the strange faces all alone? See how sorely thou art racked with rheumatism. How canst thou go glaziering? Thou liest often groaning all the night. How shalt thou carry the heavy crate on thy shoulders?'

'God will give me strength to do what is right.' The tears were plain enough in his voice now and would not be denied. His words forced themselves out in a husky wheeze.

Beenah threw her arms round his neck. 'No! No!' she cried hysterically. 'Thou shalt not go! Thou shalt not leave me!'

'I must go,' his parched lips articulated. He could not see that the snow of her hair had drifted into her eyes and was scarce whiter than her cheeks. His spectacles were a blur of mist.

'No, no,' she moaned incoherently. 'I shall die soon. God is merciful. Wait a little, wait a little. He will kill us both soon. My poor lamb, my poor Daniel! Thou shalt not leave me.'

The old man unlaced her arms from his neck.

'I must. I have heard God's word in the silence.'

'Then I will go with thee. Wherever thou goest I will go.'

'No, no; thou shall not face the first hardships, I will front them alone; I am strong, I am a man.'

'And thou hast the heart to leave me?' She looked piteously into his face, but hers was still hidden from him in the mist. But through the darkness the flash passed again. His hand groped for her waist, he drew her again towards him and put the arms he had unlaced round his neck and stooped his wet cheek to hers. The past was a void, the forty years of joint housekeeping, since the morning each had seen a strange face on the pillow, faded to a point. For fifteen years they had been drifting towards each other, drifting nearer, nearer in dual loneliness; driven together by common suffering and growing alienation from the children they had begotten in common; drifting nearer, nearer in silence, almost in unconsciousness. And now they had met. The supreme moment of their lives had come. The silence of forty years was broken. His withered lips sought hers and love flooded their souls at