“What do you mean?” said the schoolteacher, eyeing me in suspense.

“But, dear teacher,” I reminded him, “how forgetful you are! You yourself are on the executive committee of the local association for the poor.”

“Yes, I’ve been on it for about ten years and—”

“That’s precisely the point. For the longest time you and your association have been preventing God from achieving His goal. You give people clothes.”

“But please,” the teacher said humbly, “that is nothing more than loving one’s neighbor. And that, after all, pleases God to the highest degree.”

“I see. And are the authorities fully convinced of this?” I asked guilelessly.

“Of course we are. I myself, in my capacity as member of the executive committee of the association for the poor, have heard many words of praise. Just between us, the next time promotions come up, for my work in this regard . . . you understand?” The worthy teacher blushed bashfully.

“I wish you all the best,” I replied. We shook hands, and the worthy schoolteacher departed with such a proud and measured gait that I am sure he was late for school.

As I later heard, the children did come to know part of this story (the part that is suitable for children). Could it be that the worthy schoolteacher composed an ending for it?

How Treachery Came to Russia

I have another friend here in the neighborhood. He’s a blond man who is crippled and keeps his chair right up by the window both winter and summer. He can look very young; indeed his attentive face often has something boyish about it. But there are also days when he ages, the minutes pass over him like years, and suddenly he is an old man whose dull eyes have lost nearly all their life. We have known each other for a long time. At first we always exchanged glances, later we smiled involuntarily, we said hello to each other for a year, and since God knows when we have been telling each other this and that, unselectively, just as it comes up.

“Hello there,” he called out as I was passing by and his window was still open to let in the rich, quiet autumn. “I haven’t seen you for a long time.”

“Hello, Ewald.” I went up to his window as I usually did when I went by. “I took a trip.”

“Where did you go?” he asked with impatience in his eyes.

“To Russia.”

“Oh, as far as that.” He leaned back and then said, “What sort of a country is it, Russia? A very large one, right?”

“Yes,” I said, “it’s big, and not only that—”

“Was that a stupid question?” Ewald smiled, turning red.

“No, Ewald. Quite the contrary. Your asking what sort of a country it is makes a number of things clear to me. For example, what Russia is bounded by.”

“On the east?” my friend interjected.