“The sea air,” repeated Shatzkin, stupidly. “The sea air.”
“Keep her as cool as you can. I will call again in the morning.”
“The sea air,” was all that Shatzkin said. “The sea air.”
In the middle of the night the woman cried, “Shatzkin! Shatzkin!”
He looked down, for her head lay upon his lap.
“Shatzkin!” She was smiling feebly. “The baby—Aaron—Esther—dear Shatzkin——”
The congregation of B’nai Sholom had assembled for Sabbath eve worship. The rabbi was in the midst of the service.
“Blessed be God on high!” he read from the book. “Blessed be the Lord of Israel, who holds the world in the palm of His hand. For He is a righteous God——”
“Ho! ho!” shouted a derisive voice. The startled worshippers hastily turned their heads. They beheld a gaunt figure that had risen in the rear of the room, and seemed to be shaking with laughter. It was Shatzkin, but so pale and worn that few recognised him.
“Who are you that disturb this holy service?” cried the rabbi. “Have you no fear of God in your heart?”
The man ceased laughing and stared the rabbi in the eyes. “No,” he said, slowly. “I have no fear of God.”
A terrible hush had fallen upon the assemblage, and the man, looking vacantly from one to another of the faces that were turned to him, said, in a hollow voice:
“I am Shatzkin. Does no one remember Shatzkin? I sat here only last week,” and, slowly, “my—wife—went—to—the—seashore!”
“Good, brother Shatzkin,” his voice was trembling. “God has tried——”
“You lie!” cried Shatzkin, fiercely. “Do not speak to me of God! I have no fear of Him! He killed my youngest-born, and I prayed to Him—on my knees I prayed and cried, ‘Thou knowest best!’ And He killed the others—all the others, and I blessed Him and on my knees I prayed, ‘Thou knowest best!’ And He killed my wife—my darling wife—in my arms He killed her. And I am alone—alone—alone, and I fear no God! Curse—curse—curse! Ha! ha! ha! ho! ho! ho! Why should I fear God?”
And throwing a prayer-book to the floor he trampled it under foot, and rushed out into the street.
For many years there worked in one of the sweatshops on the East Side a shrivelled little man, with keen blue eyes, who was always laughing. From sunrise until midnight he toiled, sometimes humming an old melody, but always with a smile upon his lips. The other workers laughed and chatted merrily in the winter time, and became grave and silent in the summer, but rarely did they pay attention to the old man who seemed always happy. Strangers that visited the place were invariably attracted by the cheerful aspect of the man, but when they spoke to him he would smile and answer: