Page:Storm Over Paris.pdf/87

chimney of the kerosene lamp blackened with soot. "Tell me a story, Papa," she could hear herself say, snuggling more comfortably under the covers of her bed. "It would be better I you went to sleep and gave your old father a bit of rest." And then when the lamp was out and sleep still far from her, her father relented and told her stories of the dead women who came back to pray at night in the synagogue, or of the drunken peasant who wrestled with a wolf and thrust his arm deep into the animal's throat and choked it. And so, while telling stories, he himself would fall asleep.

Who was listening to his stories now? Anna wondered sadly, and bit her lip to hold back the tears.

Gertrude seemed to sense her thoughts. "Well, darling," she said. "You ought to be happy that you've left that land of darkness."

"Yes, but God knows if I'd have the strength to do it a second time."

"You just imagine so." Gertrude secretly wiped away a tear. "We both know just how great were the blessings we left there!"

"It isn't a question of wealth," Anna responded. "I mean that emigrating in general is unsound and unhealthy. It just mixes a person up, and ruins his inner self. Wandering, Gertrude, is a tragic word, a word as sharp as a knife cutting deep into the soul."

"Did you just discover that? We're a people destined to wander. Today here, tomorrow there."

"What are you talking about?" Anna started as though she had suffered a personal affront. "Who put that frightful label on us? We want to stay put, like all normal people. Take my father, for example. Can he emigrate? What would