“You are quite right,” said the Angel. “That is a Light that burns and burns and never goes out. And, Yehuda Leib, if you allow me to keep this”—and here he brandished the small glass bottle—“that is where I intend it to go. It will join the Eternal Light, and some part of it will never go out. But if you should keep it, it would languish, as it has already begun to do, and go out forever.”

Yehuda Leib sniffed, tears rolling down his cheeks. “But it was not yours to take.”

“No,” said the Dark Messenger, shaking his head softly. “But I never come on my own errand.”

This all made unbearable sense to Yehuda Leib, and yet he could not stop the fury from blossoming in his chest. “It’s not fair!” he said.

“No,” said the Angel. “It is not.”

“I want him to come back,” said Yehuda Leib.

“But he cannot,” said the Angel with a sigh. “He must go forward.”

Again, the grief bloomed in Yehuda Leib. “But I’m so angry,” he said. “And so sad.”

“Why?” said the Angel.

“Because you took my father,” said Yehuda Leib.

“No,” said the Angel. “No. You did not know your father.”

And, stepping forward, the Angel reached out his hand.

—

Stepping forward, the Angel reached out her hand.

“Stay back!” said Bluma. “You cannot have me!”

Now the Angel chuckled.

“No,” she said. “It is not your time. And that is why you must not taste of the soup before you.”

“This?” said Bluma, staring into the bowl. “But this is mine.”

“Yes,” said the Angel. “And if you take one bite, you will find it so delicious that you will not stop until the bowl has been entirely drained. That would be a great tragedy.”

“A tragedy?” said Bluma. “For me to take control of myself?”

Now the Angel smiled sadly. “Yes.”

—

“Stay back!” said Yehuda Leib, raising the knife in his hand. “You cannot have me!”

Now the Angel chuckled.

“No,” he said. “It is not your time. All I require from you is the return of my instrument.”

Yehuda Leib’s eyes narrowed. “Why? What are you going to do?”

“I am going,” said the Angel of Death, “to show you the rest of your father. Would you like to see?”

Slowly, Yehuda Leib nodded.

“Very well, then,” said the Angel of Death. “You must give me my blade.”

Gingerly, Yehuda Leib took the flat of the cold knife between his thumb and forefinger and held out the hilt to the Angel.

“Good,” said the Angel, and, navigating swiftly through the burning candles on the floor, he made his way to Yehuda Leib’s side and bent low over the table.

“What are you doing?” said Yehuda Leib.