Levy had read the newspapers and commentaries. He’d heard the stories from Danzig, Czechoslovakia, and Germany. He looked at the flames jumping in the grate and came to the conclusion that everyone was avoiding. “They’re going to try to kill us all,” he said.

The old man beamed. “See, it’s not so hard. That’s what the Germans have been saying all along, but the Jews don’t listen. Now,” the old man sat up and Levy did the same, “Cabala isn’t dumbheads looking at palms and calling up demons. Cabala is a method of trying to understand the true and profound nature of God”—he sounded like a teacher reading a familiar lesson—“and while there is no possibility of full understanding, of intimate union with Him, it is possible . . . common . . . to feel ecstasy in the attempt.” Suddenly the old man’s eyes filled with tears, and he reached across the space that separated them and touched Levy’s cheek with his young fingers. “If we’d had time you would have felt that ecstasy, I promise you. But we have other work to do.”

He handed Levy the little book. “Read this. It’s only two thousand words.” Levy turned so he was half facing the fire, half facing the land on which the house stood. The sun set, turning the grass in the west pink. The Germans would come from that direction, through the forest, to the little house. Levy picked up the book. It was called Sefer Yezirah, the Book of Creation­­­­.

His father stayed in the house and he and the old man lived in the three-­sided room for four days while the Germans overran Poland. The old man told Levy what the book meant, and how to use it; and at the end of the time, Levy and his father took the borrowed cart back to the town and from there managed to squeeze on the Krakow train which was packed with Polish officers retreating to the East.