pleased with him, too, that he is delighted with him. My mother looks at
him as though he were something more than a man, and no one speaks to
him but my father, who offers him the cushioned reclining-seat at table.

Mother is taken up with the preparations for the Passover meal, and
Rikel the maid is helping her. It is only when the time comes for saying
Kiddush that my father and the guest hold a Hebrew conversation. I am
proud to find that I understand nearly every word of it. Here it is in
full.

My father: "Nu?" (That means, "Won't you please say Kiddush?")

The guest: "Nu-nu!" (meaning, "Say it rather yourself!")

My father: "Nu-O?" ("Why not you?")

The guest: "O-nu?" ("Why should I?")

My father: "I-O!" ("_You_ first!")

The guest: "O-ai!" ("You first!")

My father: "E-o-i!" ("I beg of you to say it!")

The guest: "Ai-o-e!" ("I beg of you!")

My father: "Ai-e-o-nu?" ("Why should you refuse?")

The guest: "Oi-o-e-nu-nu!" ("If you insist, then I must.")

And the guest took the cup of wine from my father's hand, and recited a
Kiddush. But what a Kiddush! A Kiddush such as we had never heard
before, and shall never hear again. First, the Hebrew--all a's.
Secondly, the voice, which seemed to come, not out of his beard, but out
of the striped Turkish robe. I thought of my comrades, how they would
have laughed, what slaps would have rained down, had they been present
at that Kiddush.

Being alone, I was able to contain myself. I asked my father the Four
Questions, and we all recited the Haggadah together. And I was elated to
think that such a guest was ours, and no one else's.

II

Our sage who wrote that one should not talk at meals (may he forgive me
for saying so!) did not know Jewish life. When shall a Jew find time to
talk, if not during a meal? Especially at Passover, when there is so
much to say before the meal and after it. Rikel the maid handed the
water, we washed our hands, repeated the Benediction, mother helped us
to fish, and my father turned up his sleeves, and started a long Hebrew
talk with the guest. He began with the first question one Jew asks
another:

"What is your name?"

To which the guest replied all in a's and all in one breath:

"Ayak Bakar Gashal Damas Hanoch Vassam Za'an Chafaf Tatzatz."

My father remained with his fork in the air, staring in amazement at the
possessor of so long a name. I coughed and looked under the table, and
my mother said, "Favele, you shoul