Mother and Son
Moshele
But even before that, when I was still the splendid and willing pupil, the God-fearing, did he ever show me one fatherly glance—one sign of love? Did he ever speak to me other than as a stern master for whom I could feel only awe? (He continues his painful pacing back and forth. There is a long pause. Suddenly he stops before the portrait, looks at it sternly, accusingly, and speaks, half to himself.) Two years—and it is still before my eyes—as if it happened but yesterday! It was the Sabbath eve. Father was already asleep and I, as usual, stole in here to read. I became deeply absorbed and did not notice the time slip by. It was midnight and I was still sitting with a cigarette in my mouth, absorbed in my Book…
Gitele
What good does it do dig up old memories?
Moshele (painfully)
I can still hear his voice thunder: “On the Sabbath—a cigarette!” I still see his thin, bony hand pointing to the door and hear his shriek “OUT! You are no longer my son! I deny you!” (He is exhausted. Gitele goes to him and kisses him tenderly.)
Gitele
Moshele…
Moshele (sits down at the table, resting his head in his hands—sadly)
And denied, I remained. He tore me away from all I loved—from all who were dear to me.
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