I remembered the shining in Avrum’s eyes as he told me about his kaddish, that it would not be from the Jewish ritual. His eyes were those of a prankster delighted with himself.

“I understand that I cannot exercise a Jewish rite,” I said deliberately. “I think Avrum used the word kaddish merely as an expression. I believe we both understand that his concept of a kaddish was as likely inspired by the Mardi Gras as by God. I know he left some instructions for me, and when I read them, I’ll know what his wishes were.”

I could feel my voice rising in anger. “I must tell you, Mr. Walkman, that Avrum Feldman meant a great deal to me. He taught me a lot. And though I don’t want to offend anyone, I am duty-bound to carry out his instructions.”

To my surprise, Sol did not argue. He wagged his head and I realized, for the first time, that he had heard such stories before and that he cared for the old people who could only die at the Home. He picked up a sealed envelope from the desk.

“This must be what you’re talking about.” He stood and handed it to me. “I don’t know what’s in it. I would never violate the trust of such documents.”

I thanked him and told him that I would read it as soon as I was settled, and that I would visit him again before I left.

“I’d like that,” he said.

When I am in the Catskills, I always stay at the Pine Hill Inn, not for comfort, but out of loyalty.

Once it was a hotel of charm and subdued elegance, as one of those ancient mountain inns in Europe would be. It was meticulously clean and the service was gracious and reliable and disciplined. The food that Nora Dowling and her sisters, Gretchen and Olga, prepared was considered the best of the nonkosher establishments in the Cat-skills. It was a place where the guests were made to believe they belonged, and to them, belonging was important; most were Jewish refugees from the First and Second World Wars. They understood what it meant to be displaced, and they understood, even more keenly, what it meant to belong.