She was a good soul.
From time to time she would give some of her money to a needy
relative, and then she would try to make up for it by saving with
more ardor than ever. Her name was Gussie
Joe, the plump, dark fellow who was teaching me the trade, was
one of the several men in the shop who were addicted to salacious
banter. One of his favorite pranks was to burlesque some
synagogue chant from the solemn service of the Days of Awe,
with disgustingly coarse Yiddish in place of the Hebrew of the
prayer. But he was not a bad fellow, by any means. He was
good-natured, extremely impressionable, and susceptible of good
influences.
A sad tune would bring a woebegone look into his face, while a
good joke would make him laugh to tears. He was fond of
referring to himself as my "rabbi," which is Hebrew for teacher,
and that was the way I would address him, at first playfully, and
then as a matter of course
One day, after he had delivered himself of a quip that set my teeth
on edge, I said to him, appealingly: "Why should you be saying
these things, rabbi?"
"If you don't like them you can stop your God-fearing ears," he
fired back, good-naturedly
I retorted that it was not a matter of piety, but of common decency,
and my words were evidently striking home, but the girls
applauded me, which spoiled it all
"If you want to preach sermons you're in the wrong place," he
flared up.
Pages:
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254