He was a slender, trim lad, his curly brown
hair and his near-sighted eyes emphasizing his Talmudic
appearance. He was the cleanliest and neatest boy at the yeshivah.
This often aroused sardonic witticism from some of the other
students. Scrupulous tidiness was so uncommon a virtue among
the poorer classes of Antomir that the painstaking care he
bestowed upon his person and everything with which he came in
contact struck many of the boys as a manifestation of girl-like
squeamishness. As for me, it only added to my admiration of him.
His conscience seemed to be as clean as his finger-nails. He wrote
a beautiful hand, he could draw and carve, and he was a good
singer. His interpretations were as clear-cut as his handwriting. He
seemed to be a Jack of all trades and master of all. I admired and
envied him. His reticence piqued me and intensified his power
over me. I strove to emulate his cleanliness, his graceful Talmud
gestures, and his handwriting. At one period I spent many hours a
day practising caligraphy with some of his lines for a model
"Oh, I shall never be able to write like you," I once said to him, in
despair
"Let us swap, then," he replied, gaily.
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