Day after day, night after night, he went from one Jewishhouse to the next, telling his story and that of Malka, the younggirl who lay dying for three days, and that of Tobie, the tailor whobegged to die before his sons were killed.
Moishe was not the same. The joy in his eyes was gone. He no longer sang. He no longer mentioned either God or Kabbalah. He spoke only of what he had seen.
"Jews, listen to me! That's all I ask of you. No money. No pity.Just listen to me!"
Even Moishe the Beadle had fallen silent. He was weary oftalking. He would drift through synagogue or through the streets,hunched over, eyes cast down, avoiding people's gaze.
They put me in a bed with white sheets. I had forgotten that people slept in sheets.
"Don't rejoice too soon, son. Here too there is selection. In fact, more often than outside. Germany has no need of sick Jews.