Dirty is paying us a visit and my little boy is sitting at her feet.
She has buried her fingers in her hair and is reading, reading
reading. . . .
She is learning the Ten Commandments by heart. She stammers and repeats
herself, with eyes fixed in her head and a despairing mouth:
"Thou shalt . . . Thou shalt not . . . Thou shalt . . ."
The boy watches her with tender compassion.
He has already learnt a couple of the commandments by listening to her
and helps her, now and then, with a word. Then he comes to me and asks,
anxiously:
"Father, must Dirty do all that the Ten Commandments say?"
"Yes."
He sits down by her again. His heart is overflowing with pity, his eyes
are moist. She does not look at him, but plods on bravely:
"Thou shalt . . . Thou shalt not . . ."
"Father, when I grow big, must I also do all that the Ten Commandments
say?"
"Ye-es."
He looks at me in utter despair. Then he goes back to Dirty and listens,
but now he keeps his thoughts to himself.
Suddenly, something seems to flash across his mind.
He comes to me again, puts his arms on my knee and looks with his green
eyes firmly into mine:
"Father, do you do all that the Ten Commandments say?"
"Ye-e-es."
He looks like a person whose last hope has escaped him. I would so much
like to help him; but what, in Heaven's name, can I do?
Then he collects himself, shakes his head a little and says, with great
tears in his eyes:
"Father, I don't believe that I can do all those things that the Ten
Commandments say."
And I draw him to me and we cry together because life is so difficult,
while Dirty plods away like a good girl.