Page:Storm Over Paris.pdf/102

click. And why should we click? He suddenly stopped, as though the very question had halted his steps. Who am I? Moise from Tarnov, the eternally exiled, the leaf drifting in the wind. What right have I to enter into the temples of strangers? Or maybe I am not a stranger at all.

Thoughtfully he filled his pipe and puffed patiently a the worn mouthpiece until the tobacco smoke drew through the pipe's insides and a sharp tang made itself felt on his palate. He puffed faster, and the ovals of smoke rose in parallel rings, one after the other. For a long time he stared at the tiny clouds as they mounted lightly and gracefully, cradling themselves on the air. What difference does it make who I am, he thought at last. He spat out decisively and then, thrusting the pipe stem into the corner of his mouth, renewed his pace. I am one of the many!

That's it, his thoughts ran on. I've blundered through countless detours, but that's what it all adds up to. One of the many. A good phrase. Or maybe it's more than a phrase. I'm basing my whole life on it, the future of my children. Am I betraying anybody? If so, whom? My people? My roots? What does "people" mean? I, you, all of us-all of us on the same earth and sharing the same interests.

Am I nothing but a wanderer, an exile from life? That can't be true. Where is it written that such a fate is decreed for me? There are no eternal truths; all truths have their appropriate times, their frames of reference. I am a part the whole. I am a tree among your trees, a leaf among your leaves, I share your joys and your sorrows, your sufferings and your rejoicings. I share your lacks and your struggles, your doubts and your hopes-France, you are my home, my heart's refuge . . .

Towards noon the weather changed. The sun broke through the clouds. Promptly at two o'clock a group of