It is already eleven, twelve, half past twelve at night, and Bertzi's
chest, throat, and nostrils continue to pipe and to whistle, to sob and
to sigh.
The room is colder and darker, the small fire in the oven went out long
ago, and only little stumps of candles remain.
Rochtzi walks and runs about the room, she weeps and wrings her hands.
But now she runs up to the couch by the table, and begins to rouse her
husband with screams and cries fit to make one's blood run cold and the
hair stand up on one's head:
"No, no, you're not going to sleep any longer, I tell you! Bertzi, do
you hear me? Get up, Bertzi, aren't you a Jew?--a man?--the father of
children?--Bertzi, have you God in your heart? Bertzi, have you said
your prayers? My husband, what about the Seder? I won't have it!--I feel
very ill--I am going to faint!--Help!--Water!"
"Have I forgotten somebody's water?--Whose?--Where?..."
But Rochtzi is no longer in need of water: she beholds her "king" on his
feet, and has revived without it. With her two hands, with all the
strength she has, she holds him from falling back onto the couch.
"Don't you see, Bertzi? The candles are burning down, the supper is cold
and will spoil. I fancy it's already beginning to dawn. The children,
long life to them, went to sleep without any food. Come, please, begin
to prepare for the Seder, and I will wake the two elder ones."
Bertzi stands bent double and treble. His breathing is labored and loud,
his face is smeared with mud and swollen from the cold, his beard and
earlocks are rough and bristly, his eyes sleepy and red. He looks
strangely wild and unkempt. Bertzi looks at Rochtzi, at the table, he
looks round the room, and sees nothing. But now he looks at the bed: his
little children, washed, and in their holiday dresses, are all lying in
a row across the bed, and--he remembers everything, and understands
what Rochtzi is saying, and what it is she wants him to do.
"Give me some water--I said Minchah and Maariv by the way, while I was
at work."
"I'm bringing it already! May God grant you a like happiness! Good
health to you! Hershele, get up, my Kaddish, father has come home
already! Shmuelkil, my little son, go and ask father the Four
Questions."
Bertzi fills a goblet with wine, takes it up in his left hand, places it
upon his right hand, and begins:
"Savri Moronon, ve-Rabbonon, ve-Rabbosai--with the permission of the
company."--His head goes round.--"Lord of the World!--I am a
Jew.--Blessed art Thou. Lord our God, King of the Universe--" It grows
dark before his eyes: "The first night of Passover--I ought to make
Kiddush--Thou who dost create the fruit of the vine"--his feet fail him,
as though they had been cut off--"and I ought to give the Seder--This is
the bread of the poor.... Lord of the World, you know how it is: I can't
do it!--Have mercy!--Forgive me!"