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Chapter 18

The sun shone high over the tree tops in the Butte Chaumont Park. It spread its light over the wide lawns, the hills, and the dusty paths. But the Mintz flat nearby was already dim, almost dark. The three windows of the tiny apartment on the Avenue Simon Bolivar admitted scarcely any light. Like the unseeing eyes of a blind man, they turned a blank stare on the bare wall of the courtyard opposite.

At noon, when the sun reached a high point in the sky directly in line with the small rectangle of space above the opening, a faint, sickly ray of light might illuminate the windows of the Mintz flat. At such moments Madame Mintz would sigh, remembering with longing her sunny apartment on Leshna Street in Warsaw. There, on Friday, the door would constantly open for new guests-friends, neighbors, folk come to receive some Sabbath charity. But here in Paris she might as well have been the only person left in the world. Alone, day after day, with only the walls for company. It was enough to really drive a person out of her poor mind.

But today Madame Mintz refused to allow any such dismal thoughts to bother her. After all, was this not Friday, the Sabbath eve? And were not guests coming? A prospective suitor for her youngest daughter, her oldest daughter with her husband-and of course, the son of the household. And all the preparations to be made by her alone! From five in

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