Emmy’s failure is her own, but rather than blame his daughter, Ernst will surely hold her up as a faulty role model

She stands at the front door, waiting. Felix shifts from one foot to the other.

It had seemed like such a good idea. Wolf asked him for a human-interest story. And here was an Ostjude, straight from the Russian pogroms. So why was he suddenly hesitant? One plus one makes two. Or in this case, one. One newspaper article. One opportunity to show that he can write, that his words are fresh, his thinking laden with insight, maybe even a little humor.

But there’s something about her face — the large, dark eyes set in a pale face, something about the chin, that stops him short.

After a long pause, they both start talking at the same time:

“I work for a Yiddishe newspaper —”

“My little boy is loving the horse —”

They stop, look at each other. Chasya gives a wry smile. She turns into the house. “Leib’le, look who’s here.”

A little face appears, an ink stain on the bottom lip. The boy looks up at him, and his face crinkles into a smile. Felix crouches and offers his hand. Leib’le solemnly shakes Felix’s hand. Felix straightens, but Leib’le does not release his hand, instead tugging him into the house. Felix waits, Chasya silently nods.

He follows the little boy inside, and Chasya enters after them, carefully leaving the front door ajar. Leib’le sits on the wooden horse.

“Where are you going?”

“Eretz Yisrael. Where else?”

“Ah.” He could have thought of a thousand other destinations. In fact, Eretz Yisrael wouldn’t have even entered his mind. He was thinking of Paris, London, New York, those great, teaming cities leading the world into the future.

“Eretz Yisrael. Like the Rebbe.”

The Rebbe. Which Rebbe? But that is not why he has come unannounced, unexpected.

“It is a cold day.” He looks up. Chasya hands him a cup of tea. He nods his thanks, blows, and sips. It is so sweet that the roof of his mouth tingles. That must be the Russian way.

“Now,” she says, sitting across on a wooden chair and folding her hands in her lap. Do you not want a hot drink, he wishes to ask, but something stops him.

“I’d like to tell your story.”