“Another hundred years if necessary. That’s how long it was in Bible times. There’s no such thing as peace between Jews and goyim. Either they’re on top of us and we’re underneath, or they’re underneath and we’re sitting on top of them. Maybe when the Messiah comes, he’ll show them their rightful place. Good night, sir. You shouldn’t feel sorry for them. It’ll be better for this country when Jews start feeling sorry for each other. That’s our problem.”

In the entrance hall, near the bottom of the stairs, Fima saw a plump man sitting motionless under the mailboxes, huddled in a heavy cloak. He was so startled that he almost turned and ran after the taxi, which was maneuvering to turn around farther down the street. For a moment he weighed the possibility that this wretched person was none other than himself, sitting and waiting for the dawn to break because he had lost the key to his flat. Then he blamed this thought on his fatigue: it was not a person after all, only a tattered rolled-up mattress that one of his neighbors must have abandoned there. Nevertheless he switched the light on and groped frantically in his pockets until he located his key. There was a sheet of paper or a letter showing in his box, but he decided to wait till morning. If he had not been so tired, or so muddled, if it had not been so late, he would not have given up so easily. He should never have let that pass. It was his bounden duty to try to change the driver’s mind with calm, cogent arguments, without losing his temper. Deep down under several poisoned layers of cruelty and fear there had to lurk some glimmering of reason. We must endeavor to believe that it is possible to dig down and rescue the goodness buried under the rubble. There is still a chance of changing a few minds and opening a chapter here. At any rate, it is our duty to keep on trying. We must not give in.

17

Nightlife