He told me that the synagogue was crowded on Saturdays, while
on week-days people in America had no time to say their prayers
at home, much less to visit a house of worship
"It isn't Russia," he said, with a sigh. "Judaism has not much of a
chance here."
When he heard that I intended to stay at the synagogue overnight
he smiled ruefully
"One does not sleep in an American synagogue," he said. "It is not
Russia." Then, scanning me once more, he added, with an air of
compassionate perplexity: "Where will you sleep, poor child? I
wish I could take you to my house, but--well, America is not
Russia. There is no pity here, no hospitality. My wife would raise
a rumpus if I brought you along. I should never hear the last of it."
With a deep sigh and nodding his head plaintively he returned to
his book, swaying back and forth. But he was apparently more
interested in the subject he had broached. "When we were at
home," he resumed, "she, too, was a different woman. She did not
make life a burden to me as she does here.
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