and the heavy door banged behind him.
The sky was clear, the grey sleet was not falling, but the night was cold.
‘When I grow up I will be a Rabbin, too,’ thought Julius, ‘and I shall lose myself in the singing like he did. I shall make music and dream dreams in front of the golden candlestick.’
As he walked home he wondered why the air was so silent and the streets so still, and he realised that the rumble of the guns that had continued now incessantly for a whole month had ceased at last.
‘Perhaps the Prussians have used up all their shells,’ he thought; ‘perhaps they are tired of firing and are going back to their own country. Anyway, none of this matters to me. I am going to be a Rabbin. I am going to make music.’
He turned down into the Rue des Petits Champs, his hands deep in his pockets, his head poking forward.
‘I shall go back often to the Temple,’ he said to himself, ‘I will learn Hebrew properly with the young Rabbin, and I shall never go to Mass again.’
A smile of satisfaction came over his thin little face. ‘Besides,’ he reflected, ‘there was no collection and that means there is nothing to pay ...’
He turned into the house in the Rue des Petits Champs and began to climb the staircase. He wanted so much to tell Père about the young Rabbin and the visit to the Temple. He did not know how he was going to put into words all the things he had felt and seen and already he was making up little sentences in his mind - ‘You do understand, don’t you, Père? You know how I felt when I saw the seven candles and the writing in the book of prayer? His voice was your voice when you make music, it cried in the air and was sorry and was lost. You understand, don’t you, don’t you? I’ll never be a glutton again - I’ll never be a glutton again!’ - The voice was still in his ears and the golden candlestick before him. Père and Julius were bound to one another, other people did not matter at all. The singing in the Temple had taken away his headache and his bellyache, he was not tired any more or sick from the wine soup, he wanted to run to Père and tell him he was happy.
When he tried to open the door of the room he saw that it was locked. He rattled and shook at it and still it did not open. He began to kick the panel.
‘Be quiet,’ called Mère, ‘I am resting, I am not very well. Run and play a little longer and watch for Père coming home.’
‘I’m cold, Mère,’ cried Julius. ‘It’s dark and horrid out in the streets. I want to come in and warm myself.’
‘Don’t plague me,’ she scolded back, ‘after waiting nearly four hours to get you food, can’t I rest one moment? Run away and meet Père, you can’t come in just yet to worry me with your clatter and noise.’
Julius slowly let go the handle of the door. Mère was unkind, she did not care if his fingers were blue with the cold and he could no longer feel his toes. He did not see why he should lie in the street just because Mère was tired. He would be very quiet, he would sit in a corner and dream about the Temple. Why did Mère have to rest so early in the evening? He did not see. Perhaps Père would be home soon. He pushed open the window on the landing and leant out to watch the passers-by in the street. It was dark, though, and difficult to see. He balanced himself on the sill and drummed his feet against the ledge. What was the young Rabbin doing now, he wondered. Yöschev Besseïsser . Julius would never forget him. Who was that moving in the room? It was Mère murmuring something, it was Jacques Tripet talking in a low voice. Well - that really was not fair, that really was unkind, it was too much. Mère would not allow Julius to be in the room while she rested, but she did not mind that fool Jacques Tripet. Julius slipped down from the window-sill. The candle-light flickered from the grating in the wall of the room. Julius had an idea. He would climb up the ladder that led to the roof and
The sky was clear, the grey sleet was not falling, but the night was cold.
‘When I grow up I will be a Rabbin, too,’ thought Julius, ‘and I shall lose myself in the singing like he did. I shall make music and dream dreams in front of the golden candlestick.’
As he walked home he wondered why the air was so silent and the streets so still, and he realised that the rumble of the guns that had continued now incessantly for a whole month had ceased at last.
‘Perhaps the Prussians have used up all their shells,’ he thought; ‘perhaps they are tired of firing and are going back to their own country. Anyway, none of this matters to me. I am going to be a Rabbin. I am going to make music.’
He turned down into the Rue des Petits Champs, his hands deep in his pockets, his head poking forward.
‘I shall go back often to the Temple,’ he said to himself, ‘I will learn Hebrew properly with the young Rabbin, and I shall never go to Mass again.’
A smile of satisfaction came over his thin little face. ‘Besides,’ he reflected, ‘there was no collection and that means there is nothing to pay ...’
He turned into the house in the Rue des Petits Champs and began to climb the staircase. He wanted so much to tell Père about the young Rabbin and the visit to the Temple. He did not know how he was going to put into words all the things he had felt and seen and already he was making up little sentences in his mind - ‘You do understand, don’t you, Père? You know how I felt when I saw the seven candles and the writing in the book of prayer? His voice was your voice when you make music, it cried in the air and was sorry and was lost. You understand, don’t you, don’t you? I’ll never be a glutton again - I’ll never be a glutton again!’ - The voice was still in his ears and the golden candlestick before him. Père and Julius were bound to one another, other people did not matter at all. The singing in the Temple had taken away his headache and his bellyache, he was not tired any more or sick from the wine soup, he wanted to run to Père and tell him he was happy.
When he tried to open the door of the room he saw that it was locked. He rattled and shook at it and still it did not open. He began to kick the panel.
‘Be quiet,’ called Mère, ‘I am resting, I am not very well. Run and play a little longer and watch for Père coming home.’
‘I’m cold, Mère,’ cried Julius. ‘It’s dark and horrid out in the streets. I want to come in and warm myself.’
‘Don’t plague me,’ she scolded back, ‘after waiting nearly four hours to get you food, can’t I rest one moment? Run away and meet Père, you can’t come in just yet to worry me with your clatter and noise.’
Julius slowly let go the handle of the door. Mère was unkind, she did not care if his fingers were blue with the cold and he could no longer feel his toes. He did not see why he should lie in the street just because Mère was tired. He would be very quiet, he would sit in a corner and dream about the Temple. Why did Mère have to rest so early in the evening? He did not see. Perhaps Père would be home soon. He pushed open the window on the landing and leant out to watch the passers-by in the street. It was dark, though, and difficult to see. He balanced himself on the sill and drummed his feet against the ledge. What was the young Rabbin doing now, he wondered. Yöschev Besseïsser . Julius would never forget him. Who was that moving in the room? It was Mère murmuring something, it was Jacques Tripet talking in a low voice. Well - that really was not fair, that really was unkind, it was too much. Mère would not allow Julius to be in the room while she rested, but she did not mind that fool Jacques Tripet. Julius slipped down from the window-sill. The candle-light flickered from the grating in the wall of the room. Julius had an idea. He would climb up the ladder that led to the roof and
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