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around at their eager faces. “We
have a writer here maybe?”
A nervous silence ensued. “I
guess no writers,” said Mrs.
Greenspan dejectedly.
“What about putting on regular
plays?” demanded David. “Plays
like you were in?”
“You have to get clearance for
those and it’s a big tsimmis,”
Aaron answered. Then he bright
ened. “But we all know Jewish
legends! Look, everybody, we’ll
make our own plays.”
A murmur ran through the
guests. “Our own plays? That’s
crazy!”
.“We can!” cried Aaron. “As
long as we know the story, who
needs a script?”
“But—” interposed David.
“Look,” said Aaron, “I’ll show
you. I’ll show you. I’ll be the di
rector. What does every director
want to be? An actor! What does
every actor want to be?”
“A director!” laughingly sup
plied everybody in unison.
That night, the Parents’ Haven
Players, as Mr. Cohen, the print
er, had suggested they name
themselves, chose an episode in
the life of the brilliant Jewish
poet, Judah Halevi, for their jni-_,
tial effort. Aaron told them the
beautiful story, his blue eyes
reverent as the words rolled musi
cally from his lips—
The tale concerned a com
mission Judah Halevi had receiv
ed from the people of his village
to write a song which they could
sing to celebrate an important
holiday. Halevi worked long
hours to finish the song in time,
but on the night before the holi
day, with only two more lines to
wrife, nis inspiration suddenly de
serted him. They should have cal
led on Abraham ibn Ezra,” he
told his wife sadly. “He is the
traveling poet who journeys
through the world for his experi
ences, caring neither for money
nor for worldly possessions, and
he is a much better craftsman
than I will ever be.”
The wife loyally insisted that
nothing could be further from the
truth. “If you are not a finer
poet,” she firmly said, “you surely
are as fine a one as Abraham Iban
Ezra! Come to supper. Perhaps
when you have rested your in
spiration will return.”
The discouraged Judah left the
unfinished song on his desk.
While they were eating, he and
his wife looked up to see a rag
ged stranger standing in their
doorway. The wife disliked ask
ing a dirty wayfarer into her
spotless house but Halevi, seeing
the man’s weariness, invited him
to share their food. When the
meal was over, Judah and his
wife retired to rest, telling the
stranger to remain as long as he
liked.
“The climax of the play,”
Aaron continued excitedly, “is
when Judah rises from his nap
and sees that the stranger is
gone. Then he goes to his desk
The Southern Israelite
and finds the song already fin
ished! He calls his wife and tells
her that the rhyme and the meter
of the two closing lines are so
perfect that they have to be
either the work of an angel from
heaven or of Abraham Ibn Ezra,
the traveling poet. Then they
look at each other and know that
the ragged man was Abraham,
whom God sent to Judah in his
hour of need. And best of all,
Judah, seeing how easily his own
lines match the beauty of the two
lines written by Abraham, now
believes that his own talent is
just as great!”
Mrs. Greenspan wiped her
eyes. “I could act the part of the
wife,” she declared. “I feel just
like she felt.”
“A wonderful story,” said David
softly, still under the spell of
Aaron’s magical voice.
“Then it’s agreed? This will be
our first play?”
And it was agreed. Those who
did not suffer much pain from
exercise, walked about the neigh
borhood to sell tickets. “We’ll run
it like a business,” David had in
sisted. “With the money we take
in we’ll do something good, may
be for orphans.”
By the time the company pre
sented its third play, seventy
camp chairs were being occupied
by an eager neighborhood audi
ence. Everyone connected with
Parents’ Haven was in some way
connected with the undertaking;
printing, selling, sewing, fitting,
designing; and David Kappsky
had even reached the point where
he could gaze with fondness upon
Mr. Grable, for that gentleman
volunteered to be the ticket-
taker! "Everybody looks good to
me now,” he confessed to Aaron
one evening. “I feel younger. To
me, you’re like Abraham was to
Judah. You came to me in my
hour of need.”
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Aaron chuckled delightedly.
“Already we sent some orphans
on a picnic, eh, Kappsky?” he
said proudly. “And my Shirley
told me I wasted all those years
as an actor. She says I should
have been a director!”
“And my son,” David rejoined,
“says he can hardly wait until
he’s in town again to see our
next play.”
Aaron looked down at his shoes.
“Kappsky,” he said slowly, “I
was an actor all my life and still
I can’t say what’s in my heart."
“What, Aaron?’ David waited.
Aaron shifted his cane from
one hand to the other. “Well, I
just wanted to say,” he went on,
clearing his throat to get the
words out, “it was my hour of
need too.”
The knuckles of four heavily
veined hands went white as they
joined together in a straining
clasp of friendship. “I wish my
Sarah could know how good I
feel. Maybe she knows, eh, Sil
ver?” whispered David Kappsky.
He blinked hard to keep back
the tears of joy.
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